The Mission Field
by Hanson's Angel
Summary: The first part is just a small excerpt -- the rest is a 21 JS story involving Hanson/Penhall: plane crash, mountains, comfort, angst, injury, yada, yada -- better summary at the beginning of the actual story than this lame one. . .
1. GROUND ZERO

**Hello, I've finally taken "The Mission Field" and cleaned it up a little -- took down the excerpt thing and fixed a couple things. . .the chapters will be one off now, but the story reads the same. I'll leave the other A/N's in place in case people are reading this for the first time.**

**This is a story that takes place after the episode "La Bizca" – maybe a year later? It doesn't really matter, Hanson and Penhall end up back in Central/South America because Penhall needs to return there to take care of some things in order to keep custody of Clavo, etc. He and Hanson (who agrees reluctantly to go along because, well, we know how well things went the first time he agreed to go there) have been there about 3 weeks when the story begins, and I'm starting at the point where they're trying to get out of the country. The stuff that happened in the previous 3 weeks – don't have any of that, mainly because I haven't written it yet. I may or may not write itat some future date, I'll just have to wait and see on that.**

**While I allude to the fact that the story takes place in El Salvador, I'm deliberately vague about where they actually are when they board the plane to Mexico. I've done that on purpose because I needed a mountain range, and I'm pretty sure there are no mountains in El Salvador – though I could be wrong, I really should research that. Anyway, just know that they have been in El Salvador at some point, everything that needed to be taken care of they took care of (albeit with many twists and turns that has brought them to where they are now). In other words, a little creative license was used in giving certain details.**

**SUMMARY: Hanson/Penhall. Plane crash. Mountains. No slash but possible suggestions (very mild) of pre-slash IF you want there to be, it that's what gets you going. All else applies: don't own Jump Street, Penhall, Hanson (thought I'd be great at it if I did) or anything else involving the show. Don't sue, not unless all you want in return is a whole lot of nothing. Comments welcome and appreciated, but I'm nervous so go easy on me. Thanks to all who already commented – what a marvelous group of people you are!**

"This is it? This is the plane we're supposed to fly in? It looks like it won't even make it off the ground!"

"Aw, c'mon, Tom, it looks fine – a little older maybe but it seems roomy enough -- it's not like one of those puddle jumpers we had to take into Las Cruces. This looks like a 747 compared to that."

Tom Hanson sighed and slowly pulled his sunglasses off, his brown eyes squinting at the cargo plane parked in front of them. Not exactly a white-knuckle flier, he did like his air transportation to be a little more, well – modern. Or at least to look it. This thing was large, but looked like it'd been built in the 1950's. "I guess," he said uncertainly. He put his sunglasses back on, mainly so he didn't have to see exactly how old and rundown the plane actually was. "If it's the only way we can get out of here –"

"Great! That's the spirit." His work partner and best friend, Doug Penhall, clapped his hands together. He turned to a man beside him, a dark Hispanic Indian who wore a suitcoat over his grimed and sweaty clothes. It was impossible not to be grimey and sweaty in this hellhole; Hanson mentally gave him an "A" for trying. "Let me see," Penhall mused. "How do I go about negotiating a good price? I wonder what would be fair but not insulting? Or maybe I shouldn't worry about insult –"

"Cuanto lo hace costo para volarnos a Mexico?" Hanson interrupted impatiently. His Spanish was lousy, but he was exhausted from traipsing through jungle villages the past three weeks, without benefit of an interpreter or government protection, and sick of standing on this baking tarmac. As long as they'd decided that this was the plane they were going to take, all he wanted to do was get on it and at least start heading in the general direction of the United States.

The man in the suitcoat fired off a rapid stream of Spanish, the only word recognizable to Hanson being, "Cincuenta." "Fifty?" He asked. "Cincuenta dolares?"

The man replied something, of which, again, Hanson understood nothing. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. Holding it up to the man's face, Hanson said again, "Cincuenta dolares? Para el pilato volarnos a Mexico?"

"Si, si," the man said eagerly, reaching for the money. But Hanson was three weeks educated in the ways of the people, and was quicker. "Ah, ah," he said. "Yo se lo dare al pilato cuando el consigue aqui."

He spoke the last words haltingly, his rudimentary Spanish beginning to desert him. Apparently, it was good enough to secure them the flight, because the man held his hands up and nodded.

"Si. El pilato. Espere aqui."

It was also apparently better than Penhall's Spanish knowledge.

"Where's he going? What'd he say?"

"What do you mean, what did he say?" Hanson said. "Aren't you supposed to be the Spanish expert?" He dropped his back pack and sat down on it.

"Something about fifty bucks," Penhall answered, following his friend's example and plopping down next to him. "What do you mean, I'm the Spanish expert? I hardly ever speak it anymore, other than when I'm here. Clavo speaks better English than I do."

"Not hard to do," Hanson said. He pulled his baseball cap off and fanned himself with it. He'd learned two weeks ago that complaining about the blazing heat didn't make it less hot, so he amused himself with finding little ways to distract himself from it.

"I wonder how long we're going to have to sit here."

"Awhile," Penhall said. But his tone was calm, his face peaceful. Despite his larger size, he seemed to revel in the continual heat, seemed to have fallen into the rhythm of the lackadaisical pace of a native people trying to survive the edginess of a government constantly being overtaken by one group or another. _It's like he's adapted to this way of life, _Hanson thought , looking at his friend's contented face. _Almost like he wants to honor Clavo's – and Marta's – birthplace, by somehow soaking it up so he can bring it back with him._

Not Tom Hanson. He wouldn't lose any sleep if he never saw this place again. He liked his bed, his air conditioning, shoes that fit his feet right, ice in his drinks – and he wasn't ashamed to admit it.

And right now, he couldn't wait to get on that plane – beastly as it was – and get back to the good old U.S of A.

It was nearly forty-five minutes later, Penhall dozing beside him in the blanketing heat, when Hanson saw the suit-coated man, and another man whom he assumed was the pilot, returning to the plane. With them was another man and woman, the man carrying some luggage and the woman very obviously pregnant. Hanson rose and nudged Penhall with his foot. Penhall snapped awake instantly, another trick learned from too many nights spent hearing the sound of gunfire mere feet from where they slept. "The pilot," Hanson said, as Penhall stood stiffly beside him. "I hope."

The foursome made their way over to Hanson and Penhall, the couple lagging behind a bit. "Cincuenta dolares," the suit-coatedman said eagerly. "Tu pilato. A Mexico."

Hanson stared at him but didn't move. "Who are they?" he asked in English, jerking his head toward the couple. He was suddenly wary of their plane ride home being pulled from beneath them.

The man stepped forward. "I am Michael Salazar," he said, stretching his hand out toward Hanson. "This is my wife, Marilinda. We are missionaries. We were told that you might be willing to let us fly out of here with you."

They were obviously American, though Hanson thought he detected a slight Spanish lilt in the man's voice. "You're American!" Penhall exclaimed enthusiastically. "Of course you can come with us. I think you're the first Americans we've seen in three weeks." He shook the man's hand "This is great."

"You are sure?" the wife, Marilinda, asked. Again, no accent, but the way she put her words together told Hanson she spent a lot of time with the native people. He also noticed she looked quite young, almost too young to be a missionary wife getting ready to have a baby.

Of course, many could – and did – say the same thing about him.

That he looked much younger than his twenty-four years.

"I'm Doug," Penhall was saying. "Penhall. This is my friend, Thomas Hanson."

The Salazars shook his hand. "It's just Tom," Hanson said, frowning a bit at Penhall's use of his formal name. Of course, everywhere they'd gone the past three weeks, they'd had to give first, last and middle names with spellings and a whole bunch of other information, so maybe that was where the "Thomas" was coming from; yet, he hadn't introduced himself as "Douglas Penhall." And then again, what did it really matter? It wasn't as if they were going to see these people once they got off the plane.

The inside of the plane was roomy, but set up in a way Hanson had never seen before. There were four seats, two in the very rear section and two near the front. In between were stacks of boxes and crates – it was, after all, a cargo plane. The pilot sat up front, separated from the passengers by a thin curtain.

So much for the accommodations, Hanson thought. He looked at the young couple, who seemed less fazed about the situation than he was.

"Hey – which seats would you like?" Penhall asked.

"You choose," Salazar said to his wife, gently touching her arm.

"Wherever you think you will be most comfortable. I just want a couple words with the pilot."

"It does not matter," the woman. . .girl. . .Marilinda said to Penhall.

"Perhaps you should sit up front since you did make the arrangements and you may need to speak with the pilot."

They could hear her husband doing just that – all in flawless Spanish. "That is music to my ears after all the Spanish we've butchered these last few weeks," Penhall enthused. "Do you speak Spanish, too?"

"Si," Marilinda smiled. "I would say we speak Spanish better than English. It comes from living here as long as we have."

"Isn't that something, Hanson?" Penhall said, nudging the silent Hanson with his elbow. "All this time, we could've really used you and your husband as translators. Wish we would've met up with you earlier."

Penhall was downright jovial. Hanson was barely listening, the heat and the stress and his exhaustion finally catching up with him in this rickety structure that was supposed to pass for an airplane. When he didn't respond, Penhall nudged him in the side again. Hard. "Oh, right," Hanson said, shooting a glare at his friend.

"Don't know much Spanish. Or even much English at this point."

Salazar came back, put his arm around his wife. "Everything is well," he assured them. "It is exactly as we were told – we will be in Mexico sometime tonight."

"I said we would take the back seats," Marilinda said to her husband. "After all, they are generously allowing us to tag along with them at the last minute." The man smiled at his wife, pulled her closer to him, and Hanson found himself liking both of them and wondering how they could seem so – happy – in such a place, in such circumstances.

"Sure," Penhall said. "Maybe we can switch later, give you guys a chance to take in the view."

"What view?" asked Hanson, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Being a cargo plane and an ancient one at that, the only windows visible were the ones in the cockpit.

"Come on." Penhall none-too-gently pushed Hanson into their seats. Once the Salazars were out of earshot, Penhall gave him a punch on the arm. "Why the cranky attitude?" he said in a low voice. "They seem like nice people."

"Yeah, I'm sure they are." Hanson sighed. "And I'm not cranky. I'm just – anxious to get back. It's been a long three weeks, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I noticed," Penhall said. "I was there, remember?" His tone softened a little as he observed the dark circles of exhaustion ringing his friend's brown eyes. "Thanks again for coming with me. I mean it. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Yeah, well," Hanson said. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the rock-hard seat as the pilot began taxiing down the narrow runway. "Don't count on having me make a third trip down here. Two is more than enough to last me a lifetime."

Penhall smiled but didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He knew if he needed Hanson to make a third, fourth, or fifth trip down here – or anywhere else, for that matter – Hanson would protest long and loud.

But end up going with him.

Hanson kept his eyes closed. It felt good just to sit and do nothing, or worry that, even when nothing was happening, something was about to. He didn't think he'd sleep, not with how loud the engines were roaring and how cramped he was next to Penhall, but despite the noise and the discomfort he _did_ sleep, the deep, dreamless kind of sleep that only comes to the truly exhausted, and he fell into it willingly, gladly, unaware that the nightmare he was about to experience would come upon wakening rather than in his sleep.

**Just one quick note -- my God, this is almost embarrassing for me to read again. . .so a million thank you's to those of you who've so faithfully read and reread this story -- I honor all of you.**


	2. FLIGHT

**My apologies: not just for being so slow at updating (last week my kids were all home for spring break and it was impossible to type anything involving Tom Hanson with all of them here, and the week before I was busy watching Johnny Depp and Co. film Public Enemies near my hometown, so suffice it to say the real Johnny definitely took precedence over Tom Hanson at the moment!) but also for not really knowing how to use Microsoft Word and/or upload my stories in a smooth manner like most 10 year-olds can – I am basically teaching myself everything about the computer as I go. Here is the next chapter, it seems a little slow but for me it's about character development and moving everything forward the best I can. Hopefully there's something worthwhile in it. . .thanks to all you lovely readers and reviewers. . .I appreciate all of you!**

As quickly as he'd fallen asleep, a sudden jolt brought Hanson back to consciousness. Even with the lack of windows, he could tell from the shift in lighting that it was dark out.

And he was cold. The earlier blazing heat had been replaced by a deep chill that reminded him of home.

Which normally would've been comforting, except that he was wearing only a thin cotton shirt and hadn't brought a jacket. He rubbed his arms in an attempt to warm them and just then noticed the missionary wife, Marilinda, sitting in Penhall's seat.

She smiled at him. "We're over the mountains now. Quite a difference from before, isn't it?"

Hanson felt like an idiot, though not completely sure why. Because a complete stranger had been watching him sleep? "Where's Doug? Is everything – "

"He's with my husband," she said. "They are in the back, talking. I hope you don't mind if I sit here. . ."

"Of course not." Hanson sat up straighter, tried to at least appear at ease. "Do you know where we are? I mean, how long until we're in Mexico?"

"I think about an hour." She, on the other hand, had no problem looking right at him when she spoke, nor did she seem the least bit uncomfortable. "Your friend, Douglas – he was telling us about your trip. Or "trips" I should say. His wife from El Salvador, the nephew he is raising – it all sounds very interesting."

" 'Interesting'" might be an understatement," Hanson said. "Lunacy" may be more like it." He shook his head at the craziness and close calls they'd encountered on both trips, not to mention Doug's baptism by fire into the world of parenthood.

"It's a very generous thing for him to do, give that little boy a chance at a new life."

"He's always liked kids," Hanson said. "But, yes," he added hastily. "He is very generous."

"Do you have children?"

"Me?" The thought of him doing what Penhall was doing – raising someone else's kid by himself – made him wince. "No. Not even close. I'm not ready for that, yet." Of course, that wasn't completely forthcoming – there were times, moments in the dead of night when he was particularly lonely, that Hanson _did _think he would like to settle down, have a family -- and wondered when it might start to happen.

"Yes," she answered. "Douglas told us about your jobs as the "kiddie" cops. I have to tell you – when I first saw you, I thought you were about eighteen years old. At the most. I can't believe you are the same age as me!"

For the first time since they'd left the States, Hanson allowed a smile to break across his face. "That's exactly what I thought about you," he said. "That you don't look old enough to be a missionary and have a kid."

"Kids," Marilinda corrected. "This is our second. We have a two-year-old daughter in Missouri."

"She's not with you? Why not?" Hanson stopped himself. "Or is that getting too personal?' Sometimes it was hard to remember that he wasn't always on duty, that not every conversation he participated in required an interrogation.

"Usually she is," Marilinda said. "But we were advised to send her back to the States a couple months ago. We were supposed to be home sooner but -- as you know—it's very difficult to make things happen when you want them to."

"See – that's why I don't think I could do what you do," Hanson said. The idea of voluntarily living in the conditions they'd just left was beyond him. "Mission work, I mean."

"But you do it every day," Marilinda said. "Aren't the very schools that you and Douglas go into your mission fields?"

"Mission fields?" he asked. He tried not to laugh at her, she seemed so sincere, so earnest. "I don't know that I'd call them that. The people we deal with are some of the lowest scum of the earth. It hardly seems like a mission the way I think of it."

"Are you there to help? To serve? To try and save those who can be saved?"

Hanson's gaze flickered away from her's. Whether it was the stress and exhaustion of the last three weeks or the last three years, he was unable to tell, but her idealistic words – coupled with her gentle voice – threw him into a state of confusion. Yes, at one time in his life, the naïve Tom Hanson had believed that way – that he was out to redeem, out to help those in need, and that all his efforts did produce some good despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Now? Could he really say that? After everything he'd seen, the things he himself had been through, the person he'd become – could he really say he believed anything good about the job anymore, or even anything good about himself?

"I think you are," Marilinda said, when he didn't answer. "You have a mission. Anytime you are called to help someone, that's a mission. My mission field is in the jungles of Central America. Yours is in the high schools of a major American city. That is the only difference between what you and I do."

"Except it's not," Hanson argued. "The difference is, you actually care about what – "

The plane gave a lurch and descended several hundred feet before leveling off and regaining altitude. Hanson noticed Marilinda place a hand across her pregnant belly. "Should I get your husband?" he asked, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Do you want to sit by him?"

"I'm all right," she said. "It's just turbulence. We've flown through much worse than this."

Hanson had as well, but this didn't seem to be the time to remember all the harrowing flights he'd recently had. He settled back into his seat reluctantly and wondered how Penhall was faring. _He's probably comparing this to some ride at Disney,_ he thought.

He cast about for a lighter topic, unwilling to saddle this nice young woman with his own bitterness, especially when she'd been making the effort to be so kind. "I can't imagine what Doug might've told you about us. How long's he been back there, spilling his guts?" Inwardly he cringed, thinking of all the possibilities the crazy situations they'd been in afforded Penhall to embarrass him while he'd slept away, unaware.

"He's been good – nothing _too_ revealing," Marilinda said, almost as if reading his mind. "He and Michael are exchanging war stories."

"Your husband is a cop?"

"A doctor."

"Really?"

The plane descended again and this time, Hanson noticed Marilinda's smile fade as she clutched the sides of the seat. He waited, his own body tensed, for the plane to ascend again.

Instead, it descended further, the front beginning a definite tilt toward the ground.

Hanson stood, unsure of what he would do, but unable to stay in his seat. The plane began to shake, not a lot, but enough so that he knew this wasn't just regular turbulence. "Put your seatbelt on," he commanded to Marilinda, stepping around her. He was finding it difficult to stay on his feet the way the plane was lurching and vibrating. He looked toward the rear and, through the wall of boxes and crates now falling around him, saw Penhall and Marilinda's husband still in their seats. "Doug!" he yelled. For a moment the plane leveled off and he fell to his knees with the unexpected shift in balance.

"Tom! Get back in your seat!" He could hear Penhall's voice even as the plane began tilting downward again. He began to crawl along the floor, unsure of what, exactly, he thought he would be able to do other than, if this was really going to happen and this plane was about to go down, he wanted Marilinda to be next to her husband and he was absolutely certain he should be with Doug. Except the plane was nosing so far forward and the pilot was yelling something back to them through the thin curtain, a stream of frantic Spanish that Hanson had no chance of understanding.

"Hanson!" He heard Penhall yell again, but it seemed as if it were coming from a distance: or maybe it was just all the other noise mixed in, the engines roaring and the floor vibrating beneath him, the boxes coming to a splintering crash around him, the shouts of the Spanish pilot, the distinct sound of the wings clipping the tree – that made Penhall seem so far away. Hanson managed to grab Marilinda's seat and pull himself up.

"Thomas!" She grabbed his arm, tried to steady him, but she was strapped in, and then he heard a loud crack behind him and felt a sudden rush of cold air. The plane began to roll and he thought he heard Marilinda scream, or maybe it was himself he heard because the pitch of the plane tossed him to the floor and as it began speeding toward its final descent, Hanson found himself sliding toward the front of the plane. The last thing he saw before it hit the ground was the cockpit windows directly ahead, trees and snow looming toward him, and the last thing he heard was the pilot shouting, "Baje!", and although he rarely prayed for anything, he found his thoughts centering on Penhall and silently begging God – or whoever – that if he wasn't going to get out of this, then to at least let Doug be all right so that Clavo would not be alone.

Then the plane was on the ground, sluicing through snow and rock, the glass of the windows shattering, and Hanson was slammed into the instrument panel, his head striking it first so that he was unaware that the pilot flew through the shattered frame into the night, or that the plane had broken into three pieces before coming to a stop on the darkened mountainside, resting against the ground as if nestling into some kind of silent, snowy grave.


	3. DEAD OF NIGHT

**Ok, those of you who are putting up with all my assorted craziness, I've decided to push forward and post what I've got. I've been hesitant to post for various reasons which may or may not be clear as the story goes along. . .but I'll just drop it out there and hopefully all will be well. Thanks for reading & reviewing, it means everything to me. . .**

When Penhall came to, his first thought was that he'd been kicked out of his house again, and been forced to take up residence in the street. Why else would he be lying out in the snow? He opened his eyes and realized he had a splitting headache. What the? – Had he been drinking as well? He tried to remember where he'd been, what he'd done. And while he knew he was outside, no matter how hard he stared, these did not look like any streets he'd ever been on before.

He slowly lifted his head and touched the back of it, where it hurt the most. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He squinted into the dark and managed to see the outline of something fairly large in front of him. Too tall for a car. It almost looked like the tail section of a –

Plane. Everything hit him in a rush. The other guy – the doctor, Michael – one minute they'd been talking and laughing about something Hanson had done on one of their cases and then, out of nowhere, the plane had started shaking and nose diving toward the ground.

The plane.

Hanson.

Penhall forced himself to a sitting position, blood trickling down the back of his neck. His entire body felt battered, but other than the head wound, it didn't appear as if anything was too badly injured. _I must've been thrown clear somehow, _he thought. He did remember taking his seat belt off once he saw Hanson out of his seat, and the doctor telling him to put it back on, but after that Penhall's mind was blank.

He peered into the darkness – yes, that was definitely the tail section of the plane in front of him – but where was the rest of it?

The loud crack – the crates crashing from one end of the plane to the other – Hanson calling his name while crawling around on the floor – Michael shouting for him to keep his seatbelt on even as they heard the right wing splinter off when they hit some trees. . .

Penhall sat for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He slowly tested his arms and legs, making sure nothing was broken. It was eerily quiet, and the moon cast a bluish glow over everything.

Other than the leaking wound at the back of his head and a sore left wrist, he seemed all right.

But where was everyone else?

Where was Hanson?

"Tom!" He called as loud as he could. Listened. Waited.

Nothing.

"Hanson!"

Again, nothing.

_Well, that's it then, _Penhall thought. _I've got to start walking. There's no sense in just sitting here and freezing. Hanson's got to be around here somewhere. I'll just go until find him._

He thought he heard a faint noise then – a faint moan. Penhall listened. Silence. _The wind, _he thought. _Or me losing it._ He slowly got to his feet, not really sure which in direction to go.

The low groaning sound came again. This time, Penhall could tell it was coming from the section of the plane in front of him.

Penhall got it. He began sprinting, but the combination of the sloping, slippery ground and his own shocked unsteadiness sent him skittering across the rocky surface like some kind of crab. "Hanson!" he called again, as he got closer. He regained his footing as he reached the plane – what was left of it – and grabbed a hold of the cold metal to steady himself.

"Doug. . . "

No, not Hanson. Michael. Of course – he'd been the one Penhall had been sitting with. Penhall went around to the side where the entire wall had been sheared off.

Inside was the other man, the two seats that they'd been sitting in now resting in a twisted pile on top of him. The only part of his body that wasn't covered was his head and neck. "Jesus!" Penhall muttered. He immediately grabbed a piece of the seat and began tugged at it, and was shocked when it wouldn't budge. He pulled again, harder this time – still, there was no give whatsoever.

"Mike," he said. The man opened his eyes briefly. "Doug, are you ok?" he whispered.

"Yeah – look, can you move at all? Can you maybe lift some of this stuff off your legs?" Penhall was yanking at the crushed seats with everything he had, sweat beginning to break out on his forehead, blood still dripping down the collar of his jacket. "Doug, I'm being crushed," Michael said, and Penhall suddenly realized the man was struggling for breath.

"I – I can't lift this," Penhall said, beginning to panic inspite of himself. He braced his leg against the seat and managed to raise the mass of twisted metal off the man's chest just about an inch or so.

"Can you grab it?" Penhall asked desperately. There was no way he could either move this off by himself or hold it up indefinitely.

"Can you move at all?"

"My arms are trapped," Michael said. "There's something-- something holding me down – I can't – "

"I – I'll have to go and find something to free you," Penhall said. He was loathe to do it, hated the idea of leaving him alone while he stumbled around in the dark looking for he wasn't-sure-what, but he didn't see what choice he had. "Hang on, Mike, I'll hurry. Just – hold on."

Penhall gently let go of the metal and hurried back into the snow, trying to think. How long would this man live with all that weight crushing him? A few minutes? Hours? A couple days? _Get your shit together, Penhall, _he told himself. _The first thing you've got to worry about is finding something to lift some of that weight off him so he can breathe. Concentrate on that._

Again, even as he circled the wreckage, trying to catch sight of anything he might use as a wedge between the young doctor's body and the twisted metal heaped on him – Penhall's thought returned to Hanson. He knew he couldn't leave, couldn't go search for him, wouldn't even think of leaving Michael stranded like this – all he could do was hope that Hanson was all right, that wherever he was he'd been as lucky as Penhall and escaped with little or no injury.

/

"Michael. . ."

Faint, yet persistent. In his dream, someone was looking for Michael. Hanson tried to ignore the voice, but just as he slipped back into sleep, the call would come again:

"Michael, please. . .where are you?"

Slowly, Hanson allowed himself to be pulled back to consciousness. "Who was Michael? Where the hell was he?

Wherever he was, it was dark.

And freezing.

And he was apparently lying against some kind of machinery? Equipment? Trash? Hanson couldn't place it, even with his eyes open. He was lying half on his back, half on his side and he could taste blood on his lips. _Was I shot? _he wondered, his eyes closing once more. It certainly seemed possible – the blood, the way he was lying there, the pain that was washing over him in waves – he started to drift off again, but that damn voice returned, now beginning to sound distressed:

"Michael. . .help me. . . "

Hanson forced his eyes open and managed to roll over onto his left side. His entire ribcage exploded with pain and he actually cried out, the pain forcing him into full consciousness.

"Michael?" God. What the hell was going on? Hanson tried once more to sit up, this time rolling to his other side and grabbing a piece of metal in front of him. Alternately panting for breath and moaning in pain, he managed to get himself into a sitting position.

The first thing he saw was moonlit snow and rock.

In a startled rush, he remembered everything, what had happened, where he was.

Penhall.

Where was he?

Hanson pulled himself to his feet and looked around. As far as he could tell, he was standing in the shell of the cockpit, the damaged window frame bending and creaking with the wind. Except for the intact pilot's seat, everything else was a pile of unrecognizable metal with no sides and no roof.

He stepped out onto the snow-covered ground, his arm cradled against his sore ribs. Directly behind the part of the plane he'd just exited was another piece of the fuselage, pushed up against the back of the cockpit. "Doug!" Hanson began groping his way around the sides.

"Thomas?"

Marilinda. How had he forgotten about her? Hanson made his way to the back side and found an opening – it wasn't large and the edges were jagged metal, but he was able to get through.

The space was small – there was no way to even stand and there was debris everywhere – but the sides and roof were miraculously intact. "Marilinda, it's me," Hanson said. Without the moonlight, he couldn't see anything.

"I'm stuck, something is on top of me," he heard her say. She was right in front of him – Hanson shoved a couple boxes out of the way, grimacing at the pain the movement was causing him. "Hang on," he said. "This might take me a minute."

The seats they'd been in were there – flattened but still intact, and the young woman was pushed between the seats and the side of the wreckage. On top of her were two large crates – they weren't particularly heavy, but between the cramped space and the exquisite pain stabbing at his side it took Hanson a bit to pull the crates aside and free her. "Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously, suddenly very aware that she was pregnant and they were in the middle of nowhere. He tried to help her out of the tiny space she was wedged in but his own pain made it difficult to do anything.

"Where is Michael? Where is my husband?"

"I don't know," Hanson said. "I – the plane is in pieces."

"We need to find him."

Hanson took her arm, tight enough so she was forced to put her attention on him. "Just – rest a minute. Make sure you're ok."

She did as he asked, but he could see the anxiety in her face. "Where do you think he is? And your friend?"

"We won't be able to find them just this minute," Hanson said. "It's dark. We may have to wait until daylight because I don't know which way he – and Doug – might be. . ."

She made to stand up and he helped her as best he could. "I just want to try," she pleaded. "Maybe they're close by. I mean, you were close by – and what about the pilot?"

"I – I didn't see him." She was trying to grope her way across the floor to the opening. "Marilinda, just wait a second. Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yes, I think so," she said impatiently. "Thomas, maybe someone knows we crashed – maybe someone is looking for us – we need to be out there so they can see us!"

_Maybe_. Hanson crawled out behind her, gritting his teeth so as not to cry out as he felt the bones in his ribs grate together. _Something is broken, _he thought. He wondered briefly what else was injured. He could tell the left side of his face had taken a beating, but that was nothing compared to what was going on with his ribs and whatever else. And he couldn't share Marilinda's optimism – the plane was old, the pilot somebody they'd hired out of nowhere who probably hadn't filed a flight plan – but he was reluctant to take away her hopes just yet.

In the end, he didn't have to. When they were back outside and surveying the wreckage in the desolate snow, some of the hope faded from Marilinda's eyes. The wind was strong and she began shaking, both out of cold and shock. "But where do you think they could be?" she murmured.

"I – I don't know," he repeated. He leaned against the side of the plane, trying to catch his breath. For the first time, Marilinda noticed that he was hurt.

"Thomas, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He wasn't, but there was no sense in adding that problem to the list of the more pressing ones they faced. "Just banged up. I got lucky."

She nodded, though he could see doubt in her face. She pressed a hand to her stomach, bent forward a little. "What is it?" Hanson asked tensely. As trained as he was for emergencies, as many times as he's been faced with life and death decisions at his job, he knew he was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. No light, no proper clothing or shelter, no food or water –

_A baby that could be born at any time—_

"It's nothing," she whispered. "Just – I feel shaky – and I want my husband –"

"Here." He gently led her to the part of the plane that he'd been in, guided her to the pilot's seat. "Sit here and rest. It's not great but its all we've got until I – figure out something better." He waited until she was sitting, eyeing her anxiously. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She leaned her head back and took a deep breath. "I'm ok," she said. "I think it was just – lying down and then when I stood up – and it's so cold –"

"Stay here," Hanson said. "I'm going to – go back to the other side and see what I can do – find something warm for us to use –" What that something would be, Hanson had no idea, but they wouldn't last the night without some kind of shelter or covering.

He didn't dare go far and leave Marilinda alone for too long – not that he felt capable of going that far anyway, not with the darkness and the wet snow effectively chilling him enough so that all he could think about was getting warm somehow. In the end, all he could manage to find was some kind of plastic tarps in one of the crates in the wreckage. It was the same as finding nothing, but Hanson already knew that he was going to have Marilinda stay where he'd first found her – it was cramped, it was awful, there was only room for one person at best, but it would be relatively warm since the sides and top were still together. He gave no thought to his own injuries though he was aware that every move he made was painful and exhausting, including just breathing. As he pulled things out of boxes he automatically looked for items that Marilinda could use, because while he wasn't consciously thinking about how much responsibility rested on him at the moment, he knew he had to put her and the baby first. When he stepped back outside with the tarps, he looked longingly behind him at the darkened mountainside – he thought briefly of Penhall but couldn't allow himself to think about him too much because if he did, if he pictured him lying alone and injured – or – alone – in the snow with nobody to help him – Hanson shook his head to free his mind of the image – then he'd become overwhelmed, and overwhelmed was the last thing he could afford to be right now.


	4. FOREVER AND A DAY

**Ok, I noticed that my chapters are kind of messed up – the numbering and such – I think I counted my preview/excerpt as Chapter 1 – apologies for any confusion, I will go back and fix that at some point as soon as I know I can do it without doing some kind of irreparable harm to the rest of the story (like deleting it). As always, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, and I appreciate everyone who gives a review/comment. . .you're the greatest.**

Somehow, they'd gotten lucky. Well, Penhall amended to himself, _he'd_ gotten lucky. He didn't know how he could call what was happening to Michael luck.

Unless he called it the worst luck imaginable.

The night had been one of the longest Penhall had ever gone through, but it would've been much longer if a series of minor – very minor – breaks had not befallen them. Even in the dark, he'd managed to find a branch to lift the wreckage off the young doctor so it wasn't resting directly on him – he was barely able to wedge it in, and the weight of the debris kept knocking it loose, forcing Penhall to keep a constant eye on it so he could replace it, but it was the best he could do. "Thank you, Doug," Michael said at one point, as if Penhall had just handed him the greatest gift in the world. "Thank you for trying to help me."

It was this very gratitude – gratitude that Penhall felt was completely misplaced, considering he hadn't been able to do anything remotely helpful – that led to the second stroke of luck. Even though, in the back of his mind, he knew it would be impossible to move this wreckage without some kind of tools, it didn't stop Penhall from trying. As the doctor drifted in and out of consciousness, Penhall began pulling at the metal from every angle until hand hands were cut and bleeding. On his last effort he'd pulled so hard he lost his balance and fallen against the opposite side of what was left of the tail section. His head banged against the wall and he could feel the wound in the back of his head -- where the bleeding had finally started to slow – open up again. He cursed out loud, touched the back of his scalp and caught sight of something shining on the floor. Curious, he reached for it and saw that it was a buckle on a knapsack.

Inside were a variety of things – some bottled water, a flashlight, some basic medical supplies and – the biggest gift of all – a lighter. Penhall could hardly believe it. Renewed by the thought of warmth, he felt a slight bit of optimism return and, now armed with a flashlight, went back out into the night in search of wood.

He managed to get a small fire going right outside where Michael lay trapped, and was attempting to wrap a bandage around his head when he heard Michael's voice. "Doug, did you see my wife? Could you have her come here, please?"

Penhall stopped what he was doing. "I didn't see her," he said, still trying to figure a way how to put the bandage around his head

"What about my daughter?"

His daughter? Wasn't she back in the States? Penhall froze at the realization of what was happening. "Mike, your daughter is safe at home," he said, carefully. He went and crouched by the trapped man. "Do you know where you are?"

"El Salvador?"

They very well could be – but that wasn't what Penhall had meant. "In the mountains," he said gently. "We've been in a plane crash."

"Why can't I move?"

Penhall swallowed hard. "Because you're trapped. I haven't figured a way out to free you yet."

"Michael noticed the bandages Penhall was holding. "Are you hurt?"

Penhall felt a slight bit of relief – it seemed like the first normal thing he'd asked. "Yeah, I hit the back of my head somehow. It won't stop bleeding."

"Did you find a brown bag?" he turned his head and for the first time, seemed to notice the fire. "Is that where you got these things?"

"Yeah."

"Hold the flashlight and let me take a look." Penhall showed him the wound as best he could. "It could use some stitches. I wish I could put some in, but – you'll just have to wrap it up the best you can. Take the scissors and cut it down some, it shouldn't be that bog – and tie it as tight as you can at the back. . ."his voice faded back into nothing for a moment. "I'm sorry, Doug, I couldn't remember what happened."

"Oh, hey, don't worry about it. . .you just take it easy while I think about how I'm going to get you out of this."

"Doug, I'm dying."

These last words were a whisper: Penhall couldn't believe he'd heard right. "What?"

"I can feel that I'm dying."

"Mike, don't say that. . .don't give up, you've got a family waiting for you. . ."

"Have you seen my wife?"

"No – not yet. But it's dark, I'm sure we'll find her in the morning."

"Doug – I know I won't live until the morning."

"Don't keep saying that!"

"I'm so thirsty – do you have any water?"

Again, relief washed over Penhall – a simple request he could fill. He managed to get him to drink a little bit and then he slipped back into unconsciousness. Penhall suspected he was right, that he wouldn't live much longer being pinned underneath all that weight.

It was all downhill from there. His own exhaustion threatening to overtake him, Penhall took care of the fire, knowing they needed it. He still held out hope that someone would find them at any moment, but as the night wore on, even that slim hope faded as the man in front of him – a man not that much older than Penhall himself, someone who, in another time in another place Penhall could've been friends with – vacillated between delirium and pale stillness, sometimes calling for his wife, sometimes his daughter. Sometimes he moaned in unseen pain and sometimes he lay so quiet that Penhall had to put his fingers on the man's neck to see if he still had a pulse.

Finally, when the sky began to lighten in the east and Michael seemed to have fallen into a restless state of sleep, Penhall allowed himself to sit just inside the open wall of the damaged aircraft, facing the fire. He had faced death before – too often, really – so he wasn't necessarily afraid to meet it when it happened.

Except, this was different. Usually, the people whose deaths Penhall had witnessed had either chosen to die or put themselves in a situation where death was a real possibility. This man's dying right in front of Penhall's eyes was nothing like that. There was not an iota of his choice in any of this.

Unbidden, his thoughts returned to Hanson.

_If he's lying out in the snow right now, he'll never make it._

_Maybe he's not lying in the snow. Maybe he's like you, maybe he's o.k._

_Maybe he was killed on impact._

_Why would you think that, Penhall? What the hell's wrong with you?_

_He wasn't even sitting in his seat._

_So what?_

_So he didn't have his seatbelt on._

_Why does that matter? Mike had his on, and look where it got him._

_Jesus, Penhall, what a great way to think. Like the poor guy's already dead._

_He's dying. You know it. He knows it._

_And if he's dying, who's to say Hanson isn't in the same position?_

_Because I refuse to believe it._

_You're in a pretty tight situation, Penhall. Denial isn't particularly helpful right now._

He had just slipped into a fitful sleep himself when icy bullets of rain began beating against the wreckage and, quite effectively reducing the fire to a smoldering heap. Michael remained unconscious but Penhall knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so once again, flashlight in hand, he began searching the darkened tail section for something – anything – he could use to free the imprisoned doctor who hovered near death, desperate not only to free him but also to keep any thoughts of his best friend alone in the sleet out of his head before they became too much to much for him to bear.

/

Hanson awoke to the first gray light of dawn in the sky.

Well, to say he awoke was pushing it – you had to be asleep in order to wake up and he was pretty sure he hadn't slept at all, except for maybe a couple minutes here and there. Between sitting and shivering up in the front under the tarp that did absolutely nothing but maybe cut the wind a little, and trying to find a position where he wasn't groaning in pain, and being bombarded with thoughts of both Marilinda's and Doug's safety, he didn't see how he could've possibly had a chance to fall asleep. With the first streaks of daybreak came a sudden squall of sleet that burst out of the sky like gunfire and pelted him mercilessly. Hanson gave up, wrapped the useless tarp around himself tighter and made his way to the rear of the wreckage. "Marilinda?" He was unsure what to do – if she was asleep, he didn't want to wake her, but he didn't want to leave without telling her, either.

She was at the opening in an instant. "Thomas, are you all right? What is that noise?"

"It's raining. Well, kind of sleeting, I guess," he answered. "Were you sleeping? Are you warm enough?"

"What's wrong with your voice? You sound hoarse. Come in here for awhile, you must be freezing. I can't sleep anyway – "

"No, I'm all right. I'm just tired – "

"Then that's all the more reason you should come in here, so you don't get sick."

That was the very last thing he was worried about. "There's no room in there, Marilinda. You can see how tight it is – anyway, I'm going to go and try and find – well, hopefully Doug and your husband – but maybe something useful like some real blankets or food or something to make a fire. Do you know what was being transported on this plane? Did you hear what the pilot said or anything?"

"No – but if it's like all the other cargo planes that make this run, it could be anything from food to donated clothing to cocaine – I don't know."

Cocaine! Christ, that'd be all he'd need, to be trapped on some mountain with a plane full of coke and some lunatic pilot somewhere.

"Thomas, you can't go out in this rain – you'll be soaked in a minute."

"Yes, I can – see? I've got the perfect raingear." He pulled the brown plastic around his head. "And don't be jealous of how great looking it is, either."

Marilinda put her head down and smiled. "Thomas, you look – well, ridiculous," she said. "You look like Little Red Riding Hood with a cape or something."

That she was able to smile at all made him that much more determined to find her husband and Penhall. "I won't be gone long. I don't know how far I'll go – I just want to see where we're at."

He could see that she was fearful of being alone, and he certainly didn't like doing it to her, but he couldn't think of any alternative. He couldn't imagine spending another night here without at least something more adequate in the way of shelter. Not to mention food and water. Plus, if her husband and Penhall were hurt somewhere, he had to get to them.

"Please be careful," she said. "Please don't do anything – risky."

"No, I won't." _I can't_, he thought. He wasn't even sure how far he'd get with how much trouble his cracked ribs were giving him.

He started out in the direction that he guessed the plane had been coming from, and it took him nearly an hour just to inch his way down the slick, snow-covered rock. The icy rain and the tarp over his head made it difficult for him to see anything, but the plastic did actually keep him fairly dry so he kept it on even though it hampered his progress even further. Twice he slipped, both times managing not to land on his already damaged ribs, but berating himself nonetheless. If he broke anything else now, they were done for. The image of Marilinda waiting alone for him while he lay out here with a broken leg made him slow his pace to a near crawl.

Which was fine, anyway since moving or breathing without pain seemed to be a thing of the past. The slower he went the easier it was – but just barely.

He didn't really know what he was looking for, other than Penhall and Marilinda's husband – but all he saw were pieces of the plane scattered here and there. At one point, the rain let up a little and he stopped and took the plastic from his head, trying to see where he was. He had no idea how far he'd come nor how much further he should go. If he went too much further he could easily lose his way and that'd be as bad as breaking his leg.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a heap of clothing several hundred feet ahead of him. Hanson squinted through the sleet – it almost looked like –

A body.

Hanson stopped. He couldn't be sure, but from where he stood, whoever this was did not appear to be alive. Of course, he couldn't be certain until he got closer, but something about the body's position and his own past encounters with death gave him a fairly good sense of when someone was lying unconscious and when someone was lying there dead.

He couldn't see a face yet.

He forced his unwilling legs to start walking. _It's not Doug, _he told himself. _I know that's not Doug._ He had no proof, but he didn't need it. _If I thought that was Doug, I couldn't walk over there. Those aren't his clothes. I know it's not him._

And it wasn't.

For a brief moment, Hanson thought it might be Marilinda's husband, he couldn't really remember what he looked like, but as he got closer he could see it was the pilot and that he was dead, lying face-down in the snow, the stiffness of his body indicating he'd been dead for awhile. Hanson hadn't given much thought to what might've happened to the pilot, other than the brief idea that he may have been running cocaine, but now his thoughts began to run wild.

_You haven't found Doug because he didn't make it._

_You asshole, just because the pilot is dead doesn't mean Doug is. _

_Just because you haven't found Doug yet doesn't mean he's dead._

_Then where the hell is he?_

Hanson began searching the dead man's pockets, wincing at the pain in his side. His efforts were rewarded with a pocketknife, a small flashlight and a beat-up matchbook with five precious matches in it. Hanson's numb fingers nearly dropped them into the snow as he shoved them into his own pocket – he could hardly believe it. For the first time in 12 hours he felt the smallest grain of hope. A fire – a fire to warm up by, a fire that someone looking for them might see –

He found some hand-rolled cigarettes, which he left, and the man's wallet, which he debated whether he should remove or leave – finally deciding to leave in case someone needed to identify the man's body.

The last thing he took was the pilot's jacket. It was brown leather and worn in several places but it might be all the covering he would find. He removed it and stuck it under the plastic he was wearing – it was wet but would hopefully dry out, especially if he could get a fire lit. Hanson stood, panting with exhaustion. He wanted to keep walking but he knew he couldn't – if he'd been alone he would've done it in a second , but he'd promised Marilinda he'd be careful, that he'd come back, so he turned and began making his way back toward the plane.

/

For Penhall, the day had been endless. The fire that had been such a source of hope the night before had been effectively doused with the sleet, and Penhall had been unable to find anything warm or even remotely useful in one of his many forays outside the perimeter of the plane. He couldn't stay out long, and he didn't dare go far, not without any kind of warmer clothing, and not without risking his own neck trying to traverse the slick ground, but he couldn't keep himself from at least venturing out and trying to see if he could spot Hanson or Marilinda or the rest of the plane or anything. He couldn't see far with the low cloud cover and the relentless sleet, but he guessed this was the spring season from the buds on the trees and the way some of the ground was showing through the snow pack. It was possible that the rest of the plane had cleared the ridge that spread out before him before crashing – Penhall longed to climb over it, ached to begin walking in that direction but knew it would be foolish to try in these conditions.

Plus, he had Mike to consider.

At first, Penhall had thought the young doctor might've had a recovery of some sort – in the middle of the morning, he was clear and lucid and had called Penhall over to ask a favor.

"Of course," Penhall answered. "Anything."

"I need you to write a letter to Marilinda," he said. His face was colorless, almost like wax. "I'll tell you what to say, but you'll have to write it for me."

Penhall winced, tried to think of the right thing to say. "Are you sure you want to do that just yet? Try not to think like that. Someone could be here to rescue us any minute."

_Do you really believe that, Penhall? _

"No," Michael said weakly. "I – I really need you to do this. Before it gets – too late. Because once I'm – you're going to have to go and find my wife. And your friend."

Penhall reluctantly gave in, went and found a pen and some papers he could use, in the knapsack he'd found. Again, the image of himself standing at Marta's grave, telling her all the things he'd wanted to say when she was alive, haunted him. Everything was hitting just a little too close to home right now.

The man began to speak, at first haltingly, and then seeming to gain strength as he talk more and more about the love he had shared with his wife, his daughter, the life they'd had together.

"_**You are everything to me – you always have been. . .I'm not in any pain, and I think it's because I see your face in front of me and it brings me comfort, and peace and joy**_. . ._**thank you for laboring beside me these past years, I could not have done any of this without you. . .when you are sad I want you to remember that at least we had 4 years together, made 2 beautiful children, and had more love and happiness in those 4 years than many have in a lifetime. . .I know you will tell Gabriella and the new one how much I loved them, how they meant the world to me. . .Marilinda, someday, if and when you are ready, I want you to feel that you can find someone else to share your life with. . .you are still young, you are such a treasure, you should not be alone**_ _**the rest of your life. . .Doug is writing this for me, he is a good person, he did what he could to try and get me out but more importantly, he stayed with me. . .I will see you again, you know I will. . .and our babies. . .all my love. . .**_

God.

Penhall couldn't stand it anymore. There _had_ to be a way out of this. "Maybe I should go off, start walking," he told Michael. "I mean, I don't want to leave you here. I don't. But it might be the only way to have a chance of getting you out of here.'

"Doug," he whispered. "You can go if you feel it's best. But I'm not going to be alive when you get back. I'm a doctor, Doug. I know what happens when a person is in this -- situation. I've seen people who have died from less severe injuries than these. But I understand you want to do something. So, if you feel it's right to go, you should."

Penhall didn't think any of it was right. _Why me? Why do I have to be the one making these decisions? Why am I in the position of having to make these kinds of decisions at all?_

In the end, Penhall knew he couldn't leave, knew the injured man was right, that he was already dying, it didn't matter if Penhall brought back help in the next few hours even, knew that he wouldn't be able to just leave him here to die alone, not if the promise of help was just some distant dream. This was someone's husband, someone's father, some mother's son – Penhall owed it to him to stay.

As the sleet abated near the end of the afternoon, and the light began fading from the sky, Penhall managed to rekindle the fire. He replaced the bloodied bandage from his head wound and then sat down to wait. He'd never actually watched someone die like this, not over a period of time, but he'd seen enough death to know that certain things happened and he watched as these things happened to the young man he waited with. He appeared pain-free, but his breathing alternated between shallow, ragged gasps and slow wisps that were so soundless that Penhall couldn't tell if he was breathing at all. His last words were so quiet, Penhall could barely hear them: "Doug, if you can't – bring Marilinda the letter – you must try and send it to my daughter –"

Penhall understood exactly what he meant, and though he tried to keep them away, his fears for Hanson returned with a vengeance. "Of course," he said. "Don't give it a second thought. But I'll find her. Her and Hanson. I'm sure of it."

He hoped his words eased the man's mind – Penhall's own confidence was at an all time low. And a few minutes later, when Michael murmured one last "thank you" and slipped away as simply and easily as though falling asleep, Penhall went back out into the coming twilight, his thoughts dancing between Clavo and Hanson and Marta, trying to think how he would ever go on if all three of the most beloved people in his life were suddenly snatched from him.

/

The hike back to the plane took every ounce of Hanson's strength and concentration; the sleet had eased up, but the ground was still slippery and it was becoming increasingly harder to ignore how bad his injuries actually were. After he'd come upon the dead pilot, he'd walked a little further, just to see if there was any chance he could see Penhall or anyone else. The ground sloped steeply downward into a mass of trees – there was no way Hanson would ever make it down there, but he had a feeling those were the trees that had broken the plane's right wing as they'd flown through them. Without thinking, he drew in a breath to yell for Penhall and nearly fainted as the pain from his side exploded within him. He fell to his knees, Doug's name still on his lips and it became clear that he wasn't just messing around with a broken rib, that there was something really wrong with him. He rested and waited until he thought the pain had subsided a little and, feeling a measure of defeat he couldn't keep down, began the endless trek back to the plane.

Marilinda had been quiet when he'd finally returned, almost as though she were distracted. Of course, he knew she'd been hoping he'd find her husband, had been counting on it, and when he'd told her that he'd found the pilot's body he thought maybe that was what it was, what was upsetting her, but the quietness seemed beyond that, and Hanson wondered about it. It wasn't something he could put his finger on, it was just something he could feel. She seemed fine, she acted the same with him, she even managed another smile when he showed her the matches, but something about her had changed, and he wasn't exactly sure, yet, what it was.

And he didn't realize how closely she was observing him as well. "You were more than just "banged up," she said to him as she watched him shake out the pilot's jacket to see how wet it was. "I can tell, you're having a hard time moving. Where did you get hurt?"

"I think I might've cracked a rib," he said as casually as he could. He'd been trying not to show how much difficulty he was having, but that was probably stupid, she was married to a doctor after all, they spent much of their time taking care of sick and injured people.

"Just one?"

"I'm – I'm not sure. I can't tell."

"Do you want me to take a look?"

"Is there anything you can do for it?"

"No. Not really."

"Then don't worry about it." He held the jacket in front of him. "You should put this on. It's leather, it'll be warm. The outside is wet, but the lining is fairly dry."

She stepped back from him. "No, you need it," she said. "I'm not sleeping outside. You have to have it."

He knew she was right, but he still wished she'd take it. "I insist," she said firmly. "If my husband was here, I would say the same thing. It's all right – it's warm where I am at. I can see how cold you are – and if you've broken some ribs, that could be serious. You need to stay warm. So, take the jacket and wear it."

Hanson slipped the jacket on, conscious that she was tracking his every move, catching how he was gasping in pain as he put it on. It wasn't as dry as he'd like, but it was so much better than the brown plastic. "Great," he said. "I'm warmer already."

"Thomas?"

He looked up at her. He meant to ask her why she always called him that, referred to him by his full name when he knew he'd told her to call him "Tom", but the look on her face –the tightness that was etched into it – stopped him.

"Promise if you feel worse you'll say something – all right?"

Feel worse? Someone with busted ribs could feel worse than he already felt? "It's not bad, it just hurts at certain times," he said. That's really what it was – it just hurt like hell.

"But your breathing sounds – like you're having a hard time."

"Sometimes. But only if I'm – not resting." Not entirely true, but she didn't have to know that.

"Then you should rest more."

"Marilinda, I can't really sit around resting, not when I have to try and find things so we can stay alive." His words came out harsher than he intended. "But I'll tell you if I get worse, though I don't know what we'll be able to do, exactly. . ."

"I'll just want to know," she said. "O.k., I won't bother you anymore about it, I know how men are, they don't like to say when they're hurt."

After that she was quiet again. She talked to him, he knew she wasn't angry, he didn't even sense she was sad, but something was happening with her. She mentioned that she'd found some oranges and some pineapple in some crate outside the plane; they talked about water -- which there was plenty of, they just needed to find something to put it in -- and they decided against starting a fire because everything was so wet and they only had five matches. She wanted to try and light one, was again thinking about how cold he was, but he talked her into waiting until they had a better chance of keeping one going.

The sleet stopped completely but was replaced by a thick, low fog that settled over everything like a wet, gray blanket. The sun went down and while the temperature was well above freezing, the damp air and the night sky made it feel much colder. Marilinda came out after awhile, carrying the plastic tarps Hanson had been using. "I dried them as best I could," she told him. "But maybe they will be more useful because you have the jacket now."

"Why do you think the pilot was wearing a leather jacket when we left? It was so hot, remember?"

"Was he wearing it?" Marilinda asked. "Maybe he just had it with him because he knew we would be flying over the mountains."

They began to talk then about all different things, a little about her daughter back home and a little about Jump Street, but mostly about her work in El Salvador, the things she'd seen and done in such a place under such conditions. She reminded him of Judy in many ways, how smart she seemed, how easy she was to talk to, and thinking about Hoffs brought his thoughts back to Penhall, and what he could do to find him.

"Marilinda," he finally said. "I think I know where – Doug and your husband might be – I mean, I can't be positive, but if it's where I think, there's no way we could ever get to them – not with how steep it is and not with you being – pregnant –" in spite of himself, he blushed. "And I don't think I could get down without hurting myself even more. Do you think you're able to walk out of here – try and find some help? I don't know exactly where to go, but I don't know how long we can stay here. I think we have to try and get out on our own."

"Thomas, do you think _you_ can do it?" She was studying him much in the same way she had when they'd been on the plane, not at all afraid to look him right in the eyes, and again he felt that same discomfort.

"Do I really look like I'm in that rough of shape?"

"No. Well – your face is pretty bruised up, but it's not too bad. I just meant will you be able to hike down a mountain with as much pain as you're in?"

"I managed today. It took awhile but I was able to do it."

She smiled. "So you did. I guess you're right – we can't just sit and do nothing." She turned from him and looked out into the fog. "I just hate to – leave without Michael."

"He may be doing exactly what we're thinking of doing – trying to get help right now."

"I know you're right – we can't just sit here. We should at least try to get out. You decide, Thomas, when you want to go and that's when we'll go."

If it were possible, he would've left right then and there, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. "Maybe tomorrow," he said. He didn't want to wait, but he didn't want to go without at least some preparation. "For sure the next day." Maybe if they waited one more day, Penhall and Marilinda's husband would miraculously show up. They were due for some kind of miracle, weren't they?


	5. DUE A MIRACLE

**All right, this may seem obnoxious – I am posting this next part in its own chapter (it's very long, I hope not tooo long) – I originally had it as part of the previous chapter, but it seemed like it would've been too much to put all in one chapter, so I opted for this instead. I hope this goes ok. I really need all the good vibes you can send, because this part is/has been the hardest part for me to write so far. Thank you awesome people for reading and commenting – I guess I'd better say I don't own 21 Jump Street or it's characters (but maybe God in his mercy will allow me to own Tom Hanson one day), or whatever else is affiliated with the show – I'm just a person who gets her jollies writing about the best characters on the best show ever. . .so if you decide to sue, you'll quickly see that I don't have anything. . .**

"Thomas."

Marilinda, shaking his shoulder.

He had been dozing, not really asleep, and he felt stiff and groggy. It was just becoming light out, but the fog was still over everything. "What is it?" Even he could hear the hoarseness in his voice now, no doubt from sitting around in the cold, damp air the past two nights. "Are you o.k.?"

"I need you to get up," she said. She was looking right at him, searching his face. "The baby is coming."

Despite fearing – knowing – that this was going to happen, Hanson could not have been more unprepared for those words. "What? Are you sure? Marilinda, we're in the middle of nowhere!"

"I know, I'm sorry, but that makes no difference – it's going to happen whether we're in the middle of nowhere or not."

He turned away from her, ran his hand frantically through his hair. Of course – it came to him at once, what he'd been feeling the past few hours – she hadn't been quiet, she'd been in labor, she maybe hadn't even been sure of it herself, but the way she'd looked, how drawn her face had been – it made sense to Hanson now, and he wasn't even sure what a woman in labor acted or looked like. _I should've asked her, _he thought. _I should've said something._

_What the hell for, Hanson? What good would that've done? It's not like you could've stopped it by knowing._

"I don't want to scare you or anything," he finally said. "But if you were to pick a subject and label it "the subject Tom Hanson knows the least about," this would be it. I've never even held a baby, much less delivered one – " he stopped, feeling ridiculously close to tears, wishing this woman's husband, a _doctor_ for crying out loud, would walk up right this second, but if not him than Penhall, not only because Hanson missed him beyond all reason, but because Penhall, at least, would be able to _pretend_ he knew what to do.

"Don't they -- show you how – to deliver babies when you become a police officer – you know – like paramedic training – or something –" she was speaking in short bursts, gripping his arm like a vice.

"No. Yes. Sort of –" he tried to think, recall if he _had_ gone through any useful training regarding childbirth. She leaned against him and moaned. "Marilinda – that was years ago, it wasn't a lot of training – " in fact, if he remembered right, it'd been some movie they'd watched where they'd stuck "emergency delivery" somewhere between "dog bites" and "gas leaks."

"See? You did have some training." She lifted her head up, took a deep breath. "O.k., that was less than five minutes from the last one – it probably won't be too long now."

_What was she talking about? _"Listen to me," Hanson said. "Whatever – training – I had wasn't meant for a situation like this. We're nowhere near – anything, not even a decent shelter! There's not even a place for you to -- lie down and do this –"

"Thomas, I'm aware of that. I know what we have and don't have. I understand that you're afraid – but I need your help, unless you want me to do this by myself."

No, what he wanted was for her to do this with someone who knew what was going on, not someone clueless like himself. "So much could go wrong." His voice was barely a whisper, partly from what he guessed was some sort of new ailment born out of not enough sleep and not enough warmth but also partly from complete fear, fear that if something went wrong he would have no means to make it right.

"It will be all right," she told him, squeezing his hand. "Whatever happens. Babies are born all the time in less than perfect conditions. I've done this before – did you know I had my little girl in the middle of the rainforest in a tent? I know you'll be fine, I can see how strong of a person you are."

Was she kidding? Any strength he seemed to be displaying was just sheer, dumb luck. But her words calmed him a little. She was right. It didn't matter how bad it all was, nothing was going to keep it from happening. "You're going to have to tell me what to do," he said, finally. "I mean, everything. Because I don't have any idea about – any of this."

She grimaced, started to sink to her knees. Hanson tried to lift her up but she waved him off. "No, I -- you – should try and build a fire. Because we might need it."

Yes, build a fire. That he could do. Or so he thought until his shaking fingers dropped the first lit match into the snow where it immediately sizzled out. _C'mon , c'mon_, he told himself. _Pull it together, you only have four more matches. _The wood he'd managed to collect was so damp anyway, he didn't know how he'd possibly get a fire to even stay lit. And without some kind of heat, there was no way a newborn baby could survive out here.

The crate.

The crate that had held the fruit – the oranges and pineapples or whatever. Hanson dashed into the back of the plane, the adrenalin racing through him so fast that he barely noticed his sore ribs. _The cure for broken ribs, get so scared out of your fucking mind that the adrenalin rush will take the pain away!_

_Hanson, you're losing it._

By luck and possibly sheer will, he was able to get a small fire lit. Marilinda was sitting in the seat he'd been sleeping in, her hair hanging down in her face. _Shit, this was bad._ He hurried over to her. "I've got the fire lit," he told her. "But what do I need to do with it? What do you want me to do?"

"Get the tarps," she told him, her head still down. "By the fire – yes, put them there – I'm not sure what else to do just yet – Thomas, I can't talk right now, but it's not you –"

She was close. Even he could see that. Jesus, how long had she been sitting in the shelter knowing she was in labor? He grabbed the tarps that he'd been using as a blanket and spread them onto the ground by the fire that was still barely going. He needed to work with it in order to keep it alive, but he didn't want to leave her just sitting there. He blew at the flames, looked for pieces of drier wood, but everything was so wet. He heard Marilinda call for him and he went back to her. She was back on her feet and she reached out for him. "I only have a little bit before I have another contraction," she told him. "Help me walk over -- to the fire -- hurry, or else I won't be able to do it –"

She started to lean her full weight into his hurt side but he stopped her, held her off. "No, wait. " He pulled her to the other side, which still hurt, though not as much. "What's going on?" he asked her quickly. "Is it happening now? Are you close?"

She wouldn't – or couldn't – answer him until she was kneeling in front of the once-again dying fire. "I can't keep this fire lit," he told her, feeling like an utter failure, even though he knew it wasn't really his fault.

"Don't worry about it –" she gasped. She was on her hands and knees, rocking back and forth. "Do you – have something to cut the – cord with?"

Oh, good Christ. Hanson could feel the blood draining from his face. "No. Wait – the knife I took from the pilot – I'll have to use that. But it's – probably not clean –"

"Hold it in the fire for a little bit," she said. "What about something to tie the cord first?"

Tie the cord? What did that mean? "Like a rope?" he asked.

"Anything – anything to tie it before you – cut it – oh, no, Thomas don't talk to me just now – please –"

_God, this must be so awful for her, _Hanson thought, as he began frantically pulling the laces out of his boots. _It's awful for me and I'm not even the one really going through it. _He got the laces out and took the knife, held it over the few embers that the pitiful fire had produced. God, this was bad, worse than he'd even imagined. They had nothing – nothing that could possibly make this turn out the way it was supposed to.

Marilinda had started to make herself ready. "Thomas, I'm going to need you right here," she told him, when she was able to talk. "You're going to have to -- tell me what you are seeing so I know what -- to do –do you know what I am saying?"

He didn't, really, but he didn't want to scare her anymore than she already was. Still, he couldn't quite make himself get down next to her and do this.

She noticed his hesitation. "Are you afraid – to see?" she asked him.

Of course he was afraid to see, he was terrified about everything going on with this whole situation, but his worst fears had nothing to do with seeing her or the blood or anything else. "I'm afraid I'm going to mess this up," he told her, his voice shaking. "I don't want to hurt either one of you."

"It'll be all right," she told him. Her voice was surprisingly gentle, despite the fact that she was just about to push out a baby. "I'm going to do -- most of the work. You just have -- to catch him. Or her. I'll help you." She closed her eyes, another contraction washing over her. "But – I'll probably scream. Don't be alarmed by that."

Hanson was already well past being alarmed by everything that was already going on. Jesus, was this really happening? He bit his lip, waited, tried not to picture how many things could go wrong in the next few minutes. He wasn't squeamish about blood, but he certainly hadn't ever been on such intimate terms with it before, either. He didn't know if he should say anything to her, but he wouldn't have a clue as to what he _would_ say, and she didn't seem like she wanted him to talk at all, she seemed to have gone into a place where she was by herself, so he waited silently, hoping that when his turn came to do whatever it was she needed him to do he wouldn't fuck it up.

She had been right, she did end up screaming, she did end up doing all of it herself, and while he felt like a helpless fool, he also felt overwhelmed by what was taking place – that she was actually able to do this with no one to help her.

"Thomas, what do you see?" she gasped. She'd been half-sitting, half-lying while she pushed, but now she stopped, resting on both her elbows. "Do you see a head?"

"Uh – " There was blood, a fair amount, which he assumed was normal, and something – white – something that resembled a white rope beginning to come out. "I think it's the cord," Hanson said, not even sure about that.

"What?!"

"The cord – that's all I see –"

"Not the baby's head?" Her voice was beginning to panic, almost near a shriek. Cursing to himself, Hanson looked again.

"No – just the cord – it's white, isn't it?"

"Thomas! No!" There was definitely no mistaking the fear in her voice now. "You have to – "

"What is it?" he said, the anxiety in his voice climbing to match her's. "What's wrong?"

"Thomas, put your hands inside – you have to push the cord away from the baby – you can't let the cord come out before the baby –"

What the hell? Put his hands where and do what? "Marilinda, I can't," he said weakly. "I don't have any idea what to – do -- "

"You have to! You have to!" she was actually screaming at him, hysteria tingeing her voice. "Push the cord back in, hold it away from the baby while I push him out otherwise he'll suffocate!"

He did what he was told, though he'd never be able to figure out how he was able to do it. Part of the strength he needed to actually go through with it came from fear – the fear that if he didn't at least try to do what she asked and something happened, he'd have to face her and he knew he wouldn't be able to do that. . .but part of it came from something he couldn't explain, how he was able to reach inside some stranger, blindly take his own hands and feel for things like a cord and a baby's head and then guide a baby through some dark, bloody passageway before it came hurtling into his own hands – it was something he would never begin to understand because he did it without thinking, without knowing how it was working or even if it _was _working. It was one of those things one just _did_ because one had no choice.

The baby slipped into his hands without warning, a slippery mass of flesh and blood and looped cord. "I need something to wipe him off with," he said tersely. The child had yet to cry or make any noise, but Hanson could tell he was alive, could feel its warmth and see the arms and legs trying to move.

"Use my skirt," Marilinda said. She sounded exhausted, but managed to hand it to him. "Is it a boy?"

"I don't know." He didn't have time to look, was too busy trying to wipe the baby clean, trying to will him to take that first breath. He did know about CPR, could administer that in his sleep, but he also knew it was different for a thirty-second-old infant as compared to an adult. "Marilinda, I don't know how to get him to breathe," he said, trying for her sake not to lose it. "I'm afraid to hurt him –"

She sat up next to him, mindful of the fact that the baby was still attached to her. "Turn him like this," she said, helping him ease the baby over so he was lying face down. "Here – let me –" She took him out of Hanson's hands and began pushing on the baby's back. Within seconds he gave out a cry; Marilinda turned him over, rewrapped him in her skirt. "I knew he was ok, I could see his color was good," she said, as the baby's cries grew louder. She looked right at Hanson then, her eyes alight with joy. "You did perfect," she told him. "He's -- you were so quick, how did you do it?"

Perfect? If this was her idea of perfect, he didn't want to know what an imperfect delivery looked like. "Don't give me any credit," he told her. "I just -- did what you told me to do, and got lucky." He took the leather jacket off and handed it to her. "Use this to wrap him up -- it_ is_ a boy, isn't it?"

The infant was still shrieking; Marilinda began wrapping him in the jacket, never taking his eyes off him. "Yes, my sweet little boy," she said. "I have a few things for him inside the plane -- not a lot, but I brought a couple of things with me -- Michael thought I should, just because of how close I was --"

Of course, there were still things to do, things to worry about, but despite the fact that she'd just had a baby, Marilinda seemed much more capable of pulling it together than Hanson was. He did as she instructed, tied and cut the cord, gave her the blood-stained skirt to put back on. He tried to relight the smoldering fire but his effforts he were futile -- the sun was fully up but the dense fog obliterated everything and he couldn't get the wood to ignite. "You're going to have to go inside with him," Hanson finally said. "I only have one match left and I don't want to try again until it's -- not so wet out." He himself was just about done in -- with the immediate crisis over, he could feel the adrenalin rush draining out of him, and the pain from his splintered ribs returned with a vengeance so that he was hardly able to stand up straight. he managed to help the two of them back inside the shelter, but he could tell he was in trouble, he could feel that he wasn't able to breathe right. There were still things that needed to be done, but he wasn't going to be able to help her do them. It was obvious that she was resourceful -- much more so than him, it seemed -- so he left her alone with the baby and stumbled outside.

If he didn't know any better, he would've thought he'd stumbled on some weird crime scene, what with the blood and plastic and half-charred wood. He knew he should take care of it, but he couldn't, he could barely crawl back to his part of the plane to sit down and try and get it together. And while he knew that what had just happened was without a doubt a miracle, he couldn't get past the fact that he was now responsible for not just one life but two.

Not to mention his own.

_Doug, where the hell are you?_

_Don't be an idiot, Hanson. He's dead. Admit it. So is Marilinda's husband -- otherwise they'd be here. Or they'd have found help and someone else would be. You're going to have to get out on your own. And soon. Because now there's a baby and you yourself aren't in that great of shape._

_Doug's not dead. I won't admit that until I see it for myself._

_Fine. Stay in la-la land. That doesn't change the fact that you need to get out of here._

_How can I go now? She can't walk out of here -- she just had a baby an hour ago._

_She's probably in better shape than you are. You know she is. Quit making excuses. You have to go. Tomorrow._

When he felt like he was able, he went back out and began to do things, clean things up, move things around. It was nearly impossible, he moved at a snail's pace and he had to stop every few minutes to catch his breath and keep from falling over, but he pushed thoughts of what might be wrong with him away. He thought about Marilinda. He thought more about the baby. But he mostly thought about Penhall, and it was the face of his friend in front of him that allowed him to somehow push through and do what he needed to do.

**OK, I hope I did everything justice -- I realize this probably isn't what most people expect when they read a JS fan fic -- apologies if this is too weird or whatever, what can I say, this is how my twisted mind thinks -- also, don't be put off, there really is more, much more, in the the way to come involving Tom/Doug, et. al -- it's just that, this is how I write stuff, it sometimes takes me awhile to get where I want to go -- I don't usually just jump right into it, as you've probably guessed -- anyway, enough with the excuses, thanks again for reading, everyone. . .**


	6. FORK IN THE ROAD

**All right, wonderful readers, it's taken me a little while but hopefully it turned out ok. I guess you could think of this chapter as "filler", though I prefer to call it "advancing the story," LOL. Apologies if it's too slow, but I needed to get to the next chapter somehow because that's where stuff is going to happen. I do not own anything, including 21 Jump Street, et. al. but we all know how much I wish I did.**

It seemed to Penhall like he'd been walking forever, yet staying in the exact same spot. Unless it was just that he was so tired – and hungry – and he was making progress but he couldn't see it because everything was starting to look the same. The trees. The snow. The whole damn mountainside.

Not to mention the continual low-grade throbbing at the back of his skull, courtesy of the gash that wouldn't completely stop oozing. When he was still or resting, the bleeding seemed to stop – unfortunately, he wasn't usually resting or still, and any exertion eventually caused the wound to open up again. Penhall was fairly certain it wasn't serious – they'd been taught that head wounds usually bled more than their severity warranted, but it was still annoying. Annoying to have to change the bandage every now and then, and _really _annoying to feel the pain in the back of his head pulse in rhythm to his heartbeat whenever he did something particularly strenuous.

_At least you're still alive to feel anything, _he told himself. _Be grateful for that._

And he was, for the most part. After all, there were others who were not.

Michael.

Maybe Michael's wife.

Maybe Hanson.

Of course, he didn't know if Michael's wife or Hanson were alive or not. Michael, he knew, was dead. Horrifically so.

It had been the strangest thing – the last place Penhall had wanted to be was in that tail section of the plane, alone with Michael's dead body. Death was not unfamiliar to Penhall, but this type of dying was: watching someone – someone he knew he would've liked had they been given the chance to know one another – die slowly in front of him, the thought of how he might've been able to save him if he's just had the right equipment always in the forefront of Penhall's thoughts. He tried to tell himself that he shouldn't feel guilty, that none of this was his fault, that he'd done all he could – while he knew all of this was true, guilt was what he felt. Guilt that he'd escaped, escaped with minimal injury, really, guilt that except for some stroke of fate or destiny or whatever he wanted to call it, he hadn't been the one to end up dying some torturous death, his last thoughts about how to say good-bye to those he loved. . .

_Clavo._

_Hanson._

And how he'd never see them again.

Guilt that he'd survived.

So while being alone with Michael's dead body was dreadful in every possible way, Penhall also found himself unable to leave him right away, either. He wished he could give him some kind of – burial – knew this was impractical if not impossible, but consoled himself with the knowledge that at least the body was somewhat sheltered from – things – not that it truly mattered, but if he ended up facing Michael's wife, describing what happened, Penhall wanted his explanation to be as dignified and manageable as possible.

Yet, he knew there was nothing left for him to do here. He'd been so anxious to start walking just a couple of days ago – and now he was free to leave, free to get out of this hell-on-earth, yet he still found himself reluctant to start off – stalling, really – and he wasn't exactly sure why.

It might've been fear. Now he was truly alone. Everything he did, every choice he made from here on out could mean the difference between life and death for himself. There was no one else to run things by or help him decide if what step he was about to take was right or wrong.

Perhaps it was dread. Dread of the unknown. Or, more specifically – the unknown becoming known. Like what had happened to his best friend. Penhall had no doubt that he himself would make it down the mountainside, one way or another, and when that happened, he would not rest until he found Hanson.

There were moments when he felt Hanson had to be all right, that he'd survived unscathed and was on his way for help just as Penhall was. He _had _to believe that – Hanson was tough, mentally and physically. A fighter. A survivor.

But then, there were other times – such as in the dead of the previous night, in front of the pitiful fire he'd managed to light – with Michael's body just feet away – that Penhall couldn't help but acknowledge that Hanson could very well be dead. He might be strong, he might be able to pull himself out of tight situations better than most, but if he'd been thrown out of a plane at a couple hundred miles per hour, if he'd been trapped under the weight of all this metal –

_Look at Mike. He seemed strong. Smart. Capable. He must've been, to do the kind of work he did, in the middle of nowhere, with very little help. Yet, he's dead. It could've happened to Hanson. You need to prepare yourself, Penhall._

He'd eventually fallen into a light sleep in front of the fire and, when the sun rose and the light began to penetrate the dense fog that surrounded everything, Penhall got up and vowed not to think of Hanson again. Not alive, not dead. He would focus only on getting down the mountain, whatever way he could. And while he had been thinking about Clavo, on and off, throughout this whole ordeal, Penhall promised himself to think _only _of him from now on. No matter what, he had to make it back for his sake. Regardless of the outcome – here. He wasn't giving up on Hanson, he'd never do that, but he had to free himself from all the uncertainties, at least until he himself was safe and in a better position to do something about it.

He took Michaels' knapsack and made sure he had the few things that he needed – the flashlight, the scissors, the rapidly dwindling supply of bandages, the lighter, a couple granola bars that Penhall had found scattered on the floor while trying desperately one last time attempt to locate something to free Michael from his crushing prison, and a Bible. Penhall had found that pushed up against the front of the tail section, as if someone had taken it and flung it there out of anger. Penhall had opened it and seen that it belonged to the young doctor. A Bible. It made sense – he was, after all, a missionary and Penhall assumed people doing that kind of work had to be at least somewhat religious, though Michael himself hadn't mentioned any particular church affiliation or God or anything like that. He thought of leaving it behind with the missionary, even though it could do him no good now, but then thought better of it, reasoned that maybe his wife might want it -- that was, if he ever saw her alive and could give it to her.

_Although,_ _maybe giving it to her would be like a slap in the face – here you are, Jesus loves you, that's why he let your husband die a slow and agonizing death, in the prime of his life, with a wife and kids while they were doing Your work._

In the end, he stuck the book in the knapsack, feeling slightly ashamed at his thoughts – after all, they probably didn't think about all this stuff like he did. It _was_something of her husband's that that she would probably want – they'd both seemed like really nice people – they didn't get that way out of nowhere, their foundation would've had to come from something. Who was he to say how they should view all this?

He started off in the middle of the day, completely clueless about which way to go, more so with the heavy fog shrouding everything. He tried to keep markers in his head of certain trees and other landmarks, just so he wouldn't keep going in circles, but he wasn't that skilled in outdoorsmanship, not by any stretch. He plodded along, grateful that it wasn't too cold, that there was plenty of melted snow to drink and that he was finally doing something to get himself out of this mess. The terrain was fairly flat, and with the warmer temperatures, fairly easy to navigate. He tried to keep himself in a straight line, but with the fog taking its time burning off, he couldn't really follow the path of the sun that easily.

Nonetheless, Penhall plodded on. He tried to see if there was some sort of path along the way, but something told him this wasn't a part of any scenic tour and there weren't going to be nay clearly defined hiking trails to lead him out. He's maybe walked for two hours and had stopped to rest, wondering how far he should go before trying to make some sort of -- camp – for the night. The fog had lifted quite a bit, but the low-level clouds kept the sun hidden. Penhall was standing on the edge of a clearing that led to a tree-covered slope – it was the first time he'd actually come upon a spot that looked like he could take one of two chosen paths. He walked further into the trees – if he stayed on the path he was on, he could see that he'd wind up walking down a fairly steep, winding tree-covered slope that went downward. Penhall looked up at the tops of the trees canopied over him, trying to think.

_Of course you have to go down. You're trying to get down this motherfucking mountain. It's steep, but not impossible. Don't see what other choice you have._

He looked up at the treetops again. Many of them looked like they'd been sheared off –

_Like how the wing was clipping those trees when the plane was diving toward the ground._

Penhall thought some more. He couldn't explain why he felt the way he was feeling – going down the slope made perfect sense, he was, after all, trying to get _down_ the mountain, it only was logical that heading in that direction – even if it took awhile – would get him where he needed to go.

_I think the rest of the plane is further ahead. Maybe not even that far. Something about the way the trees were sawed off – _Penhall couldn't remember where he'd seen or read it, but he thought that trees, when sheared off by low flying aircraft, gave clues to a plane's final resting place depending on where they were actually severed – something about the angle.

He walked around and looked at the damaged trees, trying to figure out what they were trying to say to him. A certain break meant the plane had plummeted further down; a different separation indicated that a plane would have cleared them – and possibly kept going for a while longer.

These trees – if Penhall was remembering correctly – showed that the rest of the plane was ahead, not down the slope.

Of course, "further ahead" meant nothing to him except a thick grove of trees and, as far as he could see, some kind of -- bluff? Mountain side? Penhall couldn't tell, it was far enough in the trees that he couldn't quite make out what the layout was.

But he felt absolutely certain that the plane had gone in that direction. Not even based on his rudimentary knowledge about broken trees from airplane wings –

Based on his gut feeling.

And he'd learned to trust his gut feelings a long time ago. He had to, with the kind of work he was in.

_Penhall, remember, you're by yourself now. Every decision you make will decide if you get out of here alive or not._

Well, he could be careful, too. After all, hadn't he learned that on his job as well?

/

It didn't seem possible, but here he was, coming out of his third night in this hell on earth.

And so far, it had been Hanson's worst yet. It had been less cold and less foggy than the previous nights, but the pain in his side had been horrendous, even when he was sitting still. Actually, sitting seemed to make it worse for some reason, and at some point he'd gotten to his feet and walked around in the dark for awhile, just to see if it helped – and it did – but then, the actual motion of walking around made it harder for him to breathe, so he was forced to stand and rest -- although standing and trying to catch his breath was far from restful.

_Promise me you'll say something if you get worse, Thomas –_

But was he worse? Hadn't it been like this pretty much the entire time? And what could she do – by her own admission she couldn't really do anything for him – why should he put this on her when she already had enough to worry about?

But at least Marilinda and the baby were doing all right – at least that's what Hanson assumed. He _hoped _they were o.k. – he'd not seen them since earlier in the night, when she'd come up behind him. It had been the baby he'd heard first, making some kind of --baby noises – and he climbed down off the seat when he saw them.

"You shouldn't be out here," he said. "Here, sit down."

"I'm o.k.," she said. "You need to sit more than I do." She had the baby tucked in one arm, wrapped in some blankets. She held the jacket out to him. "Put this on. It's not completely – clean, but it'll be warmer."

"Don't you need it?"

"I have a few things, remember? Plus, I will hold him close to me all the time. We'll be fine. You have to take it."

He found it impossible to slip it on without moaning, but feeling even the meager warmth it gave him was worth the pain and effort, at least for now. Marilinda watched him silently but didn't say anything.

"Does he have a name yet?" Hanson reached over and moved the blanket away a little, gently cradling the baby's head, which easily fit into his hand.

"We were struggling with a girl's name," Marilinda said shyly, smiling down at her son's face. "But we knew what we wanted to call a boy. Raphael."

"That's nice," Hanson said, his hand still resting on the baby's head. "An angel."

She looked up at him. "Why, Thomas, you do know about Biblical things," she said. "And you said you didn't."

When had he said that? It was true, he didn't know much about religion, but he couldn't remember such a conversation taking place. "I don't," he said. "Not really. Not at all."

"The other night," she answered. "When we were talking about how Michael and I came to El Salvador."

He vaguely remembered. Not the part about his Biblical knowledge – or lack thereof – but about El Salvador, how religious Central and South American people were.

"You've done this before," he said, to change the subject. "Delivered a baby."

She looked at him, frowning slightly. "Y-yes," she said. "I have my daughter."

"No, I mean, you've helped others – deliver babies," he said. He'd given this some thought in the last couple hours, piecing together how she'd known what he should do, what to look for, especially when things had started to go awry.

Then she smiled. "I have, yes. Babies aren't usually born in hospitals in El Salvador. Especially where we are." She took the baby, who was beginning to fuss in earnest and shifted him to another position. "Do you still want to try and leave here tomorrow?"

"Marilinda, you just had a baby a few hours ago." Hanson knew nothing of what that all meant for someone afterwards, but he had a hard time believing she could just start walking down a mountainside so soon afterward. "Don't you need to – I don't know, rest or something?"

"It would be nice," she said. "But we are not really in a position to do that. I mean, I need to get him out of here – I have things for him, but not – an endless supply of things. I can take care of him – with what I have but it's not ideal. I can't stay here too long." She laid her hand on his arm. "And you can't, either. I can see on your face, even right now, how bad your injuries are. You need to get to a doctor." She looked down at her baby again, unable to keep the sadness from her voice. "I wish my husband was here. And your friend."

_You and me both, _Hanson thought. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I've managed so far. But you're right, we do have to get out of here. So, if you think you're up to it, we can go like we planned.

Except now, as he waited for yet another endless night to finally turn into one more endless day, he wasn't completely sure how far he'd actually be able to go, particularly if he was going to have to spend the majority of his time fighting off the continual pain and finding ways to breathe that didn't take all his effort and concentration.

But she was right. They couldn't stay here. Even if they left and went at a crawl, it would be better than just staying and doing nothing. She was thinking only of getting her baby to safety – which was the only thing to be thinking about right now.

As the sun came up one more time – a sunrise that was miraculously unobscured by fog or sleet for once – Hanson allowed his thoughts to drift to Penhall.

"_I wish my husband was here. And your friend."_

The whole childbirth business had left little time for him to think about anything else – and he'd tried not to think about Doug anyway, unless it was to picture him heading toward help, maybe even already safe somewhere trying to look for him and Marilinda. To imagine anything else at this point was unthinkable, especially now, when the weight of his responsibilities rested on him so heavily, and his own health seemed to be in some kind of jeopardy. _I have to believe he's all right, _he thought to himself. _Otherwise, I don't know if I could do this._ He wondered if Marilinda had thoughts about her husband being -- dead – it didn't seem like it, she always kept him in the present when she spoke of him – which was often, more often than Hanson mentioned Penhall. _Whatever happens, _he thought, as he watched the sun come up and waited for Marilinda to awaken, _I won't leave this place until I bring Doug back with me. Even if I have to come back to this God-forsaken place to do it__. _


	7. HOMECOMING

**All right, everyone, after more follies trying to use Microsoft Word in the proper fashion, not to mention our craptastic computer I have the next chapter ready to go – it's been my favorite chapter to write so far, but as always, I am never quite sure if I know what I'm doing or not. I mean, I like it, but that doesn't mean anyone else necessarily will. . . Thank you all so much for your support – your willingness to read makes everything worth it. . .**

For the first time since they'd been stuck here, the weather seemed asif it were going to cooperate, actually allow them to get out of here and start walking toward help. There were no clouds, no wind and the sun actually felt warm despite all the snow cover that was still on the ground. If they weren't in such dire straits, Hanson thought, he might've even been able to enjoy being in such beautiful surroundings.

Except, he wasn't capable of enjoying anything at the moment, and his situation seemed more precarious than ever. He and Marilinda had been making preparations in the early morning hours to leave, but it had soon become clear that she was the one doing most of the work while he was barely able to do the most basic of things, like hold the baby for her while she tried to get things ready. She knew he was struggling, had asked him to sit and hold the baby to make it "easier for her to do some things" but Hanson knew it was a ruse, knew she was trying to make things easier for him, and now, sitting with the infant in his arms, he questioned if he was going to be able to go after all.

The dizziness and light-headedness had plagued him off and on all morning, but now, as he sat and tried to fight it off and the trees in front of him danced and swirled across his line of vision he realized he was so dizzy that he was moments away from either vomiting or passing out and –

And, Jesus Christ, he was holding a baby. . .

"Marilinda!" Somehow, he managed to stand up and start walking toward the shelter. His vision was beginning to dim in spots and he held the baby tighter. She came hurrying out of the shelter at the frantic sound of his voice.

"Take him" – he gasped, holding the baby out to her. She quickly reached out and took him into her arms.

"Thomas, are you o.k.?"

This was the last thing Hanson heard – Marilinda's concerned words, her voice sounding muddled and far away – before the ground rushed up to meet him, and he sank to his knees to try to keep from falling, not realizing that he _was _falling, and he put his hands out to catch himself, to make sure he didn't land on his already battered side, and his legs gave way beneath him, pitching him face first into the snow-hardened ground.

/

When he came to, he couldn't place where he was at first. He felt the sun on his face but despite the warmth, he was shivering uncontrollably, his side and back in agony with each panting breath he took. He managed to open his eyes, and his first thought was that he was in an alley, staked out on a case with Penhall. He studied the surroundings – it didn't look exactly like an alley, but why else would there be all this crap strewn around? Why else would he be lying in such a weird position?

With every ounce of energy he had, Hanson rolled over onto his back. He thought about getting to his feet but that was all it was – a thought. Just rolling over had taken all his strength. He felt his eyes drifting shut again even though he didn't want to fall asleep.

"Thomas, stay awake."

A quiet yet commanding female voice – Hoffs? Hanson forced his eyes back open and everything came back to him in a rush. Not Judy – Marilinda. Not a stakeout with Doug – the plane crash in the mountains.

"What happened?" The hoarseness of his voice barely allowed him to get the words out.

"You fainted," Marilinda said. "I think you might be dehydrated." She had a container with some melted snow in it. "You need to drink this. But go slow. Don't overdo it."

She took him by the arm and helped him sit up. "Where's the baby?" Hanson asked. Jesus, this was bad – he couldn't have her out here dealing with him when she had the baby to take care of.

"He's inside – don't worry, he is all right, he's asleep. Come on now -- you need to drink more water and eat something. You're not taking very good care of yourself."

He felt like he was being scolded, like a little kid. Well, she _did _have a toddler at home, this was probably second nature to her. The truth was, she was right – but eating and drinking was difficult at best, and even now, just taking even a couple sips of water was wreaking havoc with his ribs, and he set the container down. "I can't," he said. He was so dizzy, and the pain was so intense, he felt as if he might pass out again.

She knelt down beside him, and he briefly wondered how she was able to get around so well when she'd just had a baby twenty-four hours ago. "The pain?" she asked. "Is that what it is?"

"Sometimes. But it's more that I can't catch my breath. I mean, it's not always like that – but a lot of the time. . .it is."

She looked straight ahead, as if coming to some sort of decision. "Then we shouldn't go yet," she said, finally. "Not if you can't make it."

"Marilinda, we have to go. I don't think it's going to get any better – it won't make a difference if I go today or tomorrow."

"You don't look well."

"Probably because I don't feel all that great." He closed his eyes for an instant, rubbed a hand across his forehead in an attempt to lessen the headache that had begun to blossom.

"All this time you've been sleeping out in the cold," Marilinda went on. "It's not good for you. Especially if you've broken your ribs."

"No, probably not," Hanson agreed tiredly. "But I haven't seen many other options as far as sleeping arrangements go."

"I think you should sleep in the shelter tonight," Marilinda said. "We should wait one more day and you should get some rest – it's not right that you've been sleeping outside this whole time."

"That's crazy," Hanson said. "There is no way you – and the baby – are staying outside. I can't even believe you'd suggest that."

She bit her lip and he instantly regretted his words. He knew, deep down, that she wouldn't really consider such a thing, was only trying to figure out a way for all of this to somehow work out. "Then both of us should stay inside," she said, still not looking at him.

"How?" he demanded. "There's hardly room for one person, let alone two – and what about the baby?"

"Well, then you should stay in there with Raphael, and I can stay up front – you can keep him just as warm as I can –"

"No!" Hanson could hear the harshness creeping back into his voice but he couldn't help it. "It's not right – I can't – I won't let you or the baby stay – out in the cold all night. You've got – I just won't do it. I can't. I know you're worried about me, I know you're just trying to figure out a way for all of us to – have shelter or whatever – but this is the way it is." He stopped, waited until he'd caught his breath. "You have your children to think about – not just the one here, but the one waiting for you back home. You can't let anything happen to you."

"I know," she said. "But you are important, too. You have people waiting for you as well."

_Not Doug – _the thought hit him like a punch in the gut, landing out of nowhere. "But the people waiting for me aren't counting on me to take care of them," he said. "And if something happens to you here – I don't know how I'd take care of the baby. I mean, I would try, of course I would do whatever I could, but how would I – feed him? You do see what I'm saying, don't you?"

Of course she understood, she'd always understood, but Hanson could tell she was bothered by the choices they were being forced to make. "Besides," he added. "I think I might be coming down with something and I don't want to get too near you – or the baby – so I couldn't stay in there with him anyway."

"What's wrong?" she asked. "What do you think it is?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just a cold." That was an outright lie – he suspected that whatever was making his head pound and his throat feel like sandpaper was much more serious than a cold, but he didn't want to alarm her any more than she already was. Then again, how was he to tell if how horrible he was feeling was due to a cold, having his ribs broken in god-knew-how-many-places or some other ominous reason that he didn't even dare think about?

"Will you at least go inside now and lie down?" she asked him. He was about to protest, but she wouldn't allow it. "It is warm out here – the baby and I can be outside right now. It is daylight – we'll be fine, I promise. If we're not, I'll come and tell you. But if we want to get out of here tomorrow, I think you should at least go and try to sleep for a little while."

He gave up arguing with her, mainly because the idea of lying down somewhere warm was suddenly appealing. "Just for a little while," he told her, struggling to his feet. "But today is the absolute last day we can stay here. All right?"

She went inside, and came back out with the sleeping child and some other things. "Are you sure?" Hanson asked. "Are you sure you two will be all right out here?"

"I promise," she told him. "It's just for a little while. We'll be fine, we can find some things to do, and it's warm out here. Please, Thomas, go lie down, you need to."

So, he crawled inside the makeshift shelter, really for the first time since the night of the crash, when he'd first found Marilinda in it. At least back then he'd been able to move around better, hadn't been passing out or anything. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but Marilinda had found some kind of straw or -- something – from one of the broken crates and had piled it into a spot, probably to lay the baby on when she needed to. He crawled over to it and collapsed onto his back, the only position he could be comfortable in. And while it wasn't perfect it was definitely warmer – the weak sunlight was warming the inside even more and despite his cramped position and the ever-present pain, Hanson felt his eyes drifting shut once more. _Just for a little bit, _he told himself. _Maybe if I get a little sleep I won't feel so crappy. _If they were going to try and walk out of here tomorrow, he really needed to pull his shit together.

Except, for the first time, he was beginning to have his doubts about being able to do it. The broken ribs were a problem, a huge problem, but as he'd told Marilinda, he suspected something else was wrong with him as well. He knew next-to-nothing about injuries except for a little about gunshot wounds and knife wounds and how to stop bleeding if he needed to, but he could tell that, whatever injuries he had, they were fucking up his ability to eat, breathe or even think properly. He wasn't one to get sick, in fact he couldn't remember being ill with anything since he was a kid, but he sure as hell felt sick now, felt like he could be running a fever, knew that things weren't right. His entire chest felt full, a strange, heavy sensation that made him feel like he wanted to cough, but he didn't dare because if just breathing hurt this much, he could only imagine how painful doing something like coughing would be.

_I'll be all right, _he told himself, as he fell asleep in the warm cocoon of the plane – his first real sleep in days. _I have to be, Doug's waiting somewhere._

/

Penhall had been up at the first light of day, unable to really sleep all that well without the shelter of the tail section, despite the fire he'd made. It was just as well – he wasn't really concerned with sleeping, not when he thought – knew – that the rest of the plane was not that far ahead.

_And I thought you weren't going to think about Hanson, Penhall. Just Clavo. If you're going to only think of Clavo, wouldn't it be a better idea to head _down_ the mountain instead of up that ridge thing ahead?_

_And what should I do, not even try and find Hanson? Not even bother checking when he could be here somewhere? _

He started through the thick forest of trees before the sun was fully up. It took him longer than he'd expected to get through it – at least a couple of hours – mainly because the ground was still covered with quite a bit of snow. The further he went, the more Penhall began to doubt his own judgment – maybe he _was_ wrong, maybe the way the trees had been clipped meant nothing, and the rest of the plane was nowhere in this direction and he was just screwing himself by walking on some kind of sightseeing tour that was actually taking him away from where he needed to go.

Just as he was thinking of turning back, cursing to himself about how stupid he'd been for wasting so much time, he was suddenly out of the thicket of trees and standing face to face with the ridge he'd glimpsed here and there – an upward slope of rock that he couldn't begin to estimate how tall it was in feet – but it looked like it could be climbed without any ropes or equipment or whatever.

Of course, if he slipped and broke his leg, he was done for.

_You could still turn back, you know. After all, you don't know for sure that anything's here._

He began making his way up the ridge, being careful to test his footing and go as slow as he needed to. He wished he'd thought to pick up a branch or stick to use for balance, but he hadn't planned on having to climb steep areas of the mountain like this. _Just take it easy, _he kept telling himself. _There's no rush, whatever's over on the other side will still be there whether you get there in ten minutes or ten hours._

_Unless it's someone who needs help and every second is critical – like Mike._

_You can't think like that, Penhall. Otherwise you're going to get careless and break something. Then you'll be the one that'll need someone to find you and facing the possibility of dying out here alone._

He forced these thoughts from his mind and continued his way upward, as quickly as he dared, which was close to a crawl. The sky was cloudless and the sun actually felt hot beating on his head, causing sweat to pour off his face while the wound at the back of his head opened up again.

_Great. Just fucking great._

But he pushed on.

He lost track of time and had no idea how long it took him to gain access to the top. As slow as he was going, there'd been a couple times where the shale loosened beneath his foot and he slipped a few feet before regaining his balance. Looking behind him, he was amazed to see that the ridge was actually much steeper than he'd thought, and it was no wonder it was taking him forever to climb it.

_Yeah, and what if no one's up here, Penhall?_

_Well, then I guess I can rest easy tonight now, can't I?_

When he did finally arrive at the summit, he expected to see the ridge descend below him – had even thought he might not be able to make it down if it looked to steep. Instead, the ridge gave way to a flat surface – a snow-covered, relatively flat area with few trees.

He didn't know if this was a good sign or not – he was too relieved that he wouldn't have to traverse any more mountainous terrain, at least for the time being. In fact, he could stop right now – the sun was lowering in the sky, and it wouldn't be a bad place to stay for the night. That way, he'd have a full day tomorrow to go as far as he needed to, to see if the plane – or anything else – was here.

But he found himself walking a little further. He'd not gone more than a few minutes, still thinking he could stop at any point for the night, when he spotted something in the distance, something he recognized immediately as a body.

Oh, fuck.

Penhall had not prepared himself for what he'd do if he actually found –

_Shit, I can't even say it._

He forced himself to keep walking, his eyes averted to the ground.

Shit. Fuck.

_What will you do, Penhall? _

_How the hell am I supposed to know?_

_Clavo. Think of him. Whatever happens, you have to keep it together for his sake._

When he felt he'd gotten close enough, Penhall forced himself to look ahead.

And knew immediately that it wasn't Hanson in front of him.

The relief was so great, his legs nearly gave out.

He got close enough to see that it was the pilot, obviously dead for several days.

Shit, that was two people dead now.

His immediate relief was replaced with dread. He's been right, the rest of the plane _was _up here – somewhere – but, Jesus, he hadn't planned on finding everyone –

_Don't get carried away. You don't know that's what happened. It could very well be the opposite – maybe Hanson and Mike's wife are alive. You are._

_Clavo._

Penhall kept walking. He knew there was no way that he would stop now, not tonight, not until he had the truth. And as painful as the truth might be, he wouldn't be able to rest until he had it.

He could tell by the sun that it was late afternoon – dark in just a little while. So far, so good – no other signs of -- bodies, just a few pieces of wreckage scattered here and there. He didn't know how long a plane could stay in the air once it began breaking apart, but he had to believe it couldn't be long. Of course, length and distance meant nothing up here, in this kind of situation – walking a mile on some city block wouldn't take nearly as long as walking a mile on some mountain ridge – as he's just done – or through some icy forest of trees.

He knew he was close when he saw a wide-swathed trail in the snow – a trail that looked like it could've only been made by the belly of a plane careening along at a couple hundred miles an hour. He plodded along, his heart sinking at the ominous silence, the lack of any sign of human activity. And yes, fifteen minutes later, just when Penhall had begun to wonder if maybe he'd misjudged where the plane could be yet again, he spotted some type of hulking wreckage – not a lot, but enough for him to be able to see it fairly well. As he got closer, he could feel the adrenalin pushing his heart rate up – he didn't want that, but he was unable to do anything about it – and he tried to hope for the best. _Maybe they were here and left, _he told himself. _Keep your shit together, Penhall._

/

Marilinda was a ways from the shelter – she'd spent the afternoon walking with the baby in the warm sun, trying to find pieces of dry wood so that, when Thomas woke up, they might try and light some kind of fire with the last match. If he was going to stay outside one more night, he had to be warm, could not spend another minute out in the cold without putting himself at real risk. She wasn't completely sure what was wrong with him, she could see he didn't like to reveal much about – well, anything – but about how his physical condition was especially, but she knew it was serious just by watching him. Broken ribs – especially if there was more than one, or if they were broken in more than one place, which she suspected was the case – were always bad because they could lead to other problems.

So, in spite of her own weariness at having just had a baby, she was able to slowly do a few things here and there, get the wood, take care of the baby and try to look for other things from the wreckage that they might be able to use.

It was on one of her forays into the trees on the edge of the clearing they'd landed in that she saw Penhall walking toward her.

She nearly screamed – with both fear and joy – and then immediately thought she must be seeing things, that she couldn't possibly be seeing – a person – someone alive – walking toward her.

She knew it wasn't her husband, had known it right away because this person looked nothing like him. She thought it might be Thomas' friend, she didn't know who else it could be up here in the middle of nowhere, but she couldn't remember exactly what Douglas looked like.

She stopped and waited, the baby in her arms momentarily forgotten in her joy that someone was coming. As he got closer, she recognized him as the one who'd befriended her husband – Thomas' best friend. His partner. The one who, though he'd not said much these past days, she knew he thought about nearly all the time.

For the first time, she wondered where her husband was, why he wasn't with Douglas.

She couldn't help herself – she was in no physical position to, but when he got close enough to her, she all but ran up to meet him. "You are here!" She found that she was laughing and crying all at once. "Oh my God, Douglas, where are you coming from? Did you get help?"

His relief at finding her alive was so great that Penhall couldn't even begin to sort out his thoughts. "No, no – I walked up here from this ridge – back there –" he tried to point, but found that he couldn't even do that, his mind was turning everything over so quickly. He couldn't take his eyes off the baby she was holding. "You had the baby?" He didn't think he was capable of being more astonished at what he was seeing.

"Just yesterday," she said. "He's early, but he seems healthy – I think the accident brought the labor on –"

"Marilinda, how did you do it?" Penhall asked. "Who helped you?"

"Thomas, of course!" She stopped, seeing the stunned look on his face. "Oh, Douglas, I'm so sorry – I should've said right away – Thomas is with me. He delivered the baby."

"Hanson?"

"He saved his life," Marilinda said. "It was like a miracle, really –"

"Hanson's _here_?" Penhall couldn't believe it. When he'd seen Marilinda, it hadn't crossed his mind that Hanson could be with her. Not even when he saw the baby did it register that Hanson might've been the one to deliver it.

"He's here, he's inside the – well, shelter I guess you'd call it," Marilinda said, beginning to walk toward the wreckage. "He was wonderful, Douglas, he – I mean, I can't put into words how amazing he was, I still don't know how he managed to do the things he did – " She stopped for a moment. "But something's wrong with him, he's been hurt, just a little while ago he fainted. He's – he won't really tell me what's going on."

"He's hurt bad?" Penhall's mind was all over the place. An hour ago, he'd expected to be walking alone into God-knew-what kind of -- situation – and now he was reuniting with both Hanson and Marilinda. And a new baby.

_While her husband lies dead in the frozen wreckage at the bottom of that ridge._

He couldn't keep the thought from coming unbidden into his head.

"His face is pretty bruised up and I think he may have broken some ribs," Marilinda said. "I haven't seen them so I can't be certain, I can only go by what little he's told me, and my own – experience – but I think he may have broken them in more than one place, and I think he's getting sick as well –" her voice trailed off at the look on Penhall's face.

"How was he able to deliver the baby?"

"Well, he is just very strong, it seems," she said. "He's been sleeping outside, though, so I made him go into the shelter thing so he could sleep in a warm place today, we were going to try and leave here tomorrow –" she stopped, breathless, her words and thoughts all spilling out in one mad rush in her effort to tell him everything.

They were a few feet away from the make-shift shelter. "This is it?" Penhall said. "It's – tiny."

"It's all we have."

"Where does Hanson sleep?"

"In the front – the part where he was when we – crashed – but it's all out in the open, there's no walls or ceiling or anything. I don't think he sleeps much, anyway – he's in a lot of pain." She paused, noticing how quiet Penhall had become, the look of trepidation on his face. "It's all right, he will be overjoyed to see you."

They made their way over to the shelter and eased their way through the narrow opening, even though there was hardly room for both of them to get inside. Marilinda crouched in first, still holding the baby, and moved in as much as she could so Penhall could squeeze in.

/

The sun had moved – the inside of the shelter was shadowy and colder when Hanson felt someone rousing him. "Thomas, wake up." Someone shaking his arm, her voice insistent.

Had he really been sleeping? Again, he was having a hard time remembering where he was, what had been going on before this. For a moment, he couldn't even think of his own name, even though someone had just said it. "What?" he asked. He kept one arm across his eyes, not because it was bright but because his head ached. His throat felt like he'd been swallowing shards of glass, making it difficult to say anything.

"Thomas, it's me. Marilinda. Douglas is here!"

Douglas? Doug? What kind of sick dream was he having? He put his arm down and forced his eyes open. Marilinda. Yes, there she was, looking both slightly worried and – happy – at the same time.

"Douglas is here, he has found us." There was no mistaking the joy in her voice.

Hanson lifted his head – yes, there was Doug, just barely able to crowd in next to Marilinda. Hanson frowned. Squinted. So now he was hallucinating. "What's going on?" He didn't expect an answer that made sense, was just trying to wake himself from whatever cruel dream was dangling Penhall in front of him.

"Hanson." Doug's voice. Marilinda moved aside and Penhall crawled over to him. "It's me. Are you all right?"

It looked exactly like Doug. The voice was definitely Doug's. Hanson pulled himself up, his heart pounding. But how could this be Penhall in front of him, out of nowhere? "Doug?" he whispered. "Are you really here?"

Penhall reached over, grabbed his hand. "It's me," he said. "I'm really here. I can't believe I found you."

Hanson pulled his hand away, as if he were unable to make himself believe what was happening. "Am I dreaming?" he demanded. He reached up and touched Penhall's face. "Does someone need to wake me up?"

Penhall put his hand back over Hanson's, squeezing it as tight as he could. "You're awake," he said. "You don't look so hot, but you're definitely awake."

"Doug, I thought you – " That was all he could get out. If he lived to be a hundred, he knew he'd never be able to put into words the joy he felt at that moment. He threw himself into Penhall's arms and burst into tears, huge sobs of elation and relief that he couldn't stop, that shook his entire body and caused his shattered ribs to stab him with each breath he took. He didn't care. Penhall carefully wrapped his arms around him, closing his eyes against the tears spilling down his own cheeks. "I know," he said. "I – I know what you thought. But it doesn't matter. Everything's going to be o.k."

Only the excruciating pain from his tortured breathing made Hanson pull away; otherwise, he might've held onto Penhall indefinitely. "My God, Doug," he gasped, still refusing to let go of his sleeves. Penhall's smile slid into a worried frown at the sound of Hanson's labored breathing. "Marilinda says you're hurt," he said. "What is it – how bad –"

Marilinda – where was she? At some point she had slipped back outside, no doubt waiting for them to finish their reunion. "What about her husband?" Hanson asked. "Have you seen him?" Of course, he already suspected what the answer was – if Penhall had seen him, he'd be here with him.

"He didn't make it," Penhall whispered. He put his head down a moment before continuing. "He's about – I don't know – maybe a mile or two back – by the tail section –"

Hanson's joy immediately turned to dread, and he slowly let go of Penhall's sleeves. "Doug, are you sure? I mean, you have to be sure, she has children and everything –"

"I was with him when he died," Penhall said. "He lived for a little while but I think he had some major internal injuries – he was trapped under a bunch of metal –"

Hanson closed his eyes, more in anguish than exhaustion. "Does she know?"

"You tell me," Penhall answered slowly. "Does she?"

Hanson understood what Penhall was asking without saying it directly. "I – don't know," he answered truthfully. "She might. She – always talked about him like he was – alive – but she's far from stupid, so she's probably figuring things out right now –"

"This is going to be hard," Penhall said. He went and peered out the opening. He could see the young woman standing a ways away, her back to them, holding her baby son. "I guess I didn't realize how hard until now."

"Do you – want me to tell her?" Hanson asked. "I mean, it'll be bad no matter who she hears it from, but maybe it'd be easier coming from me – I mean, I've gotten to know her a little –"

Penhall gave a tiny smile at the offer. "No," he said, squeezing Tom's hand again. "I'll do it. There's something I need to give her anyway." The sounds of Hanson's ragged breathing and the obvious pain etched on his face were beginning to alarm Penhall as well. "You rest," he told Hanson. "We're going to have to figure out a way to get the hell out of this place."

Hanson sat back wearily. "O.k., but Doug, promise you'll come back here when you're – done. Don't go anywhere else, all right?"

Penhall laid his hand on Hanson's arm. "Of course," he reassured him. "Where else would I go?"

"Do you really have to ask that?"

**I know, kind of an abrupt ending, not to mention an **_**extremely**_** long chapter (hope it's not too bogged down, but this was kind of the scene I based the entire story around, LOL) but I have to do it this way or else I'll end up just tacking on the whole next chapter. As always, now that I've actually typed it up, I'm cringing – but here you go, hope you like, it's Hanson & Penhall so hopefully, it's all good. **


	8. RECKONING

**Don't own 21 Jump Street, or anything remotely connected to it, except my own dreams that I **_**wish**_** I owned it. . .thanks again for reading/reviewing. . .letting me know what worked for you. . . updated to add: this is very late, I am way behind on everything, including my writing, I apologize but on May 14, 2008 at around 4 a.m. I met Johnny Depp in Columbus, WI and I've been trying to get everything back to order around here since that absolutely unimaginable night. . .thanks so much for your patience. . .**

Penhall crawled out of the shelter, reluctant to leave Hanson and even more reluctant to see Marilinda. Even if she knew what he was about to say, had begun to try and prepare herself, Penhall knew, from his own experience, it was going to be horrible. It didn't matter how ready you thought you were to hear bad news – hearing that someone you loved was never coming back was the worst, something a person was never ready to hear.

_Treat it like you would at work, Penhall, _he told himself as he slowly trudged toward her and her day-old baby. It hadn't happened often, but he'd had to deliver bad news to different people over the course of his career – this situation wasn't much different, not really, all he was doing was telling someone – someone who probably already suspected as much – that her loved one had died. It wasn't easy, but he _had_ done it before.

But this _was_ different. It was completely different. The people he'd had the misfortune to give bad news to in the past were people he'd never had to see again. It was a pretty simple formula to follow: tell them what happened, say you're sorry, give them the rest of the information they needed so they could finish taking care of it. Then it was done. Time to go on your way.

_Shit, what a crappy thing to have to do, _Penhall thought. Come to think of it, protocol or not, he'd never liked that part of the job, of course, no one did, but he'd never been great at it and had been thankful that it'd only been an issue a couple of times.

But really, who _would_ be great at telling someone something like this?

Marilinda had seen him coming – somehow she still seemed to have the same look of happiness on her face that she'd had when she'd first met up with him. "He must be so relieved you are all right," she said, and Penhall knew she was referring to Hanson. "He never said, but I know he thought of you constantly."

Penhall's own emotions were still just beneath the surface, remembering how his own thoughts had been on Hanson nearly every moment. "I still can't believe he delivered the baby," he said, because he wasn't ready to say anything else. "I mean, Hanson, of all people."

"He was wonderful – I -- I would've lost him had it not been for what he did."

"How bad off is he, do you think? He seems like he's in pretty rough shape." Penhall knew Hanson was in rough shape, and he did want to know from Marilinda more about what was going on, but he also knew he was stalling, putting off the inevitable as long as he could. It wasn't fair, he knew she had a dozen questions – but then again, what was fair about any of this?

"Like I said, I can't be certain," she answered. "I think he has a couple bad breaks – just from how he is acting – he may have broken them in more than one place, which is always serious. I think he may be getting sick as well, which often happens with injuries like this, and especially since he's been sleeping – well, not sleeping, he says he can't really sleep -- but staying outside in the cold since we got here. I really wish I would've been more insistent – today was the first time I could talk him into going inside and resting for awhile. Even that was hard to do, he didn't really want to, I don't know, have us be out here, I guess."

Penhall could see the self-reproval written on her face. "That's just how he is," he said gently. "You weren't going to be able to get him to do anything any differently. Do you think he can make it out of here? Do you think _you_can?"

"We were going to start walking today," Marilinda said. "We were getting ready and then he – he was dizzy, and I think he's probably dehydrated as well – he lost consciousness for a little while – that's when I made him go inside to rest – but Douglas, just think, if he hadn't – collapsed – we might've gone and then we may have missed you – so maybe it was for the best that we couldn't go."

He looked at her, his heart pounding in dread with the weight of what he had to tell her. "So – you think he can do it?"

"I think he's going to try and do it whether we think he can or not," she answered. "I don't think you'll be able to tell him he can't."

"No, probably not."

"He seems very strong. I mean, he's pulled more than his share of the load here the past few days, despite how bad off he is."

"He is strong," Penhall agreed. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Are you able to go? Do you think you can walk far?"

She looked away from him then, shifted her eyes off toward the distance. "I know I can walk," she murmured. "But I worry about leaving Michael here alone."

"Marilinda –"

"Please don't say it, Douglas. I – I know what you're going to say and I don't think I can hear it just yet." She was holding the baby up to her face, her cheek resting against his head.

Penhall waited, unsure of what he'd say next, letting her take the lead. Hanson had been right – she had known, had figured it out.

Of course she had.

"Where is he?"

He tried to think of a way to answer that wouldn't make it sound as terrible as it actually was. "He and I – were in the tail section," he said quietly. "It's down this ridge a ways back – maybe a mile, mile and a half from there. I'm sorry, I did what I could –"

She turned to him then, her eyes brimming with tears. "Was he in pain?" she whispered. "Was it – terrible for him?"

God. He absolutely could not tell her that it'd been terrible, even though it must've been, and she'd surely find this out for herself once she learned, at some point in the future, the extent of his injuries, how he had died. "No – I don't think so," Penhall hedged. He felt sick at how this was all going, how horrifying it must be to hear it coming from him, but he also sensed something else – maybe a realization that she needed to know, after all the waiting and hoping and speculating – just as he'd needed to know when he'd been searching for Marta. "He talked about you all the time. You and your little girl. He –" Penhall struggled to find the right words, "seemed at peace. And he – was worried about the rest of us – up until the very end –"

Her tears spilled over then, but she somehow managed the smallest of smiles. "Yes, he would be," she said. "That is how he is – was –"

Again, Penhall's thoughts flashed to his first trip to El Salvador, how swiftly and without any warning he'd been told that Marta had been killed – and he went over to Marilinda, who was now weeping in earnest. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'd give anything to be able to tell you he's o.k. I didn't know him hardly at all but I liked him. And I know for sure you were the last thing he was thinking about." He reached into his pocket, pulled out the letter. "He wrote this for you – well, I wrote it, that's my handwriting, but he told me what to write and I wrote it." He held the paper out to her. "I know what it says, but I – it's really just for your eyes, I mean, I'd never let anyone else know what it says or anything."

She looked at him before slowly taking the letter from his hand.

"He wrote me something?"

"Do you want me to take the baby – so you can read it right now?"

He wasn't sure she'd accept his offer, but she handed him the child without a word. "I'm going to go check on Tom," he said. The baby was beautiful – Penhall hadn't even had a chance to notice him until now. "And don't worry about us. Take all the time you need."

He left her standing with the note, still unfolded, in her hands. He felt some of his own heaviness ease a little as he studied the baby he was holding. _She has him, has her little girl, _he thought. _She'll be all right for their sakes._

Just as he'd pulled it together for Clavo's sake, after Marta had died.

/

Despite all the excitement and joy at Penhall's return, Hanson was nearly asleep again when Penhall returned with the baby in his arms. He couldn't help it – lying still was the only way his unbearable pain was tolerable, and he was so worn out he couldn't keep himself awake.

"Tom, are you o.k.?"

His eyes flew open. "Yeah, sure," he said. He knew he sounded far from o.k. but that couldn't be helped. He saw Penhall holding the baby. "Where's –"

"She's by herself," Penhall answered. "I offered to take – what's his name? The little guy? Or is it a girl? I never even asked her –"

"A boy. Raphael," Hanson said. "Here, I'll come out." He crawled out of the shelter, unable to keep from wincing at the pain shooting through his ribs and, with every measure of strength he could muster, struggled to his feet, swaying dizzily for a moment. Penhall reached out a free hand, but Hanson clutched at the side of the plane instead, steadying himself. "It's o.k., I've got it." He didn't know if he had it or not, but he didn't want Penhall having to worry about him when he was holding the baby.

"Yeah, I took Raphael so she could read something her husband wrote for her," Penhall said. Hanson wondered about that, but didn't say anything. "C'mon, let's go start a fire."

"You have matches?" Hanson asked incredulously. He still felt like crap, definitely not well at all, but somehow, it didn't matter as much now that Doug was there.

"A lighter," Penhall said. "It was in this knapsack that Mike had – there were a few other things that we had, but not really any food –"

"We have some of that," Hanson said. "Marilinda found something – but we could have used a fire, especially at night." He was still in awe that he and Penhall were walking together, having a conversation as if nothing had ever happened – no plane crash, broken ribs, baby being born in the middle of nowhere, people dying right in front them. There was so much to talk about, so many things to ask, things he wanted to say – yet they were strolling along and talking about the fire and the food as if they were discussing a case. "It's been freezing. We – I – had some matches but I wasted most of them trying to light a fire the day – the baby came –" he stopped, embarrassed, remembering the frantic blundering around he'd done.

"Yeah, Marilinda said you've been sleeping outside every night," Penhall said. "No wonder you're in rough shape."

"There wasn't any other choice. Believe me, I didn't do it because I enjoyed it."

"O.k., Hanson, this isn't Marilinda you're talking to now – this is me. How bad are you, really?"

"How would I know, Penhall? I'm not a doctor."

Penhall stole a quick glance behind them. "Watch what you say," he cautioned. "You don't want her to overhear –"

Fuck. How stupid of him. "No – I know," he said, glancing back himself. "Sorry." He could see that she was still a distance away. "Is she – o.k.?"

"I doubt it," Penhall said. "If you mean, will she be able to handle it without falling apart? I guess I don't know. What do you think?"

"She –" Hanson tried to think. "She seems pretty – strong."

"She said the exact same thing about you," Penhall said.

"She's pulled it together way more than I have," Hanson said.

"That's not what she says."

"Besides," Hanson said, ignoring him, "She has the two little ones – to think about."

"That's what I was thinking." They'd reached the pile of wood that Marilinda had collected earlier, and Penhall tried to hand the baby over to Hanson. "Here, you hold him while I light this."

"_You_ hold him," Hanson said. "I nearly dropped him this morning when I got – dizzy."

"You sure? Do you think you can light a fire?"

"I didn't know your Boy Scout skills were so much better than mine all of the sudden."

Penhall couldn't help but smile at the tone in Hanson's voice – whatever might be wrong with him, he was still the same Hanson.

"You want to light it? Be my guest – holding the baby's more fun anyway." There was really nowhere to sit, but the sun had melted some of the snow, so Penhall sat on the ground. The baby was awake but quiet and he looked at him for a minute while Hanson arranged the wood. "Does he cry much?"

"I don't know," Hanson said, trying to concentrate on lighting the wood and breathing through the pain that crouching down was causing him. He gave up and knelt beside it, hoping that it would be less severe – and it was, though just barely. "I haven't really – noticed. I don't think so."

"Marilinda said you were amazing delivering him," Penhall teased. "Who would've thought Tommy McQuaid would ever help bring a baby into the world?"

"God, Doug, don't even bring that up." He had the fire lit, though how well it would burn he didn't know, but he could only be on his knees so long before the pain would make him dizzy again. "That was a nightmare."

"What? You're not thinking of changing careers when we get back?"

"Not to that. I never want to – go through that again – even when I have my own kid." The fire seemed like it was going to stay lit, and even though he could stand up without falling over, he was forced to put his head down and try to catch his breath yet again – always, it was like he couldn't take enough air in, that he could only inhale so far before the sharp sting of his grating ribs forced his breathing to end in a gasp, without ever feeling like he'd gotten a full breath in. He hadn't noticed it when he'd been asleep – but how long would it be before that changed? Two days ago he'd been able to move around better than he could now – it was only a matter of time before breathing while lying still was going to be a challenge.

But there was no sense in thinking about that now. There was nothing he could do about it – except hope they got out of here before he got to the point where he couldn't. He knew he wasn't fooling Penhall, either, that he was well aware of how he was struggling, but there was no sense in sitting around worrying about that either – at least not yet. "What's with the McQuaid thing on your head?" he asked, referring to Penhall's bandage. He sat down next to him, not sure how long he'd be able to stay in that position before he became uncomfortable, but for now, he wanted to feel the warmth of the fire as much as possible but, more than that, wanted to bask in Penhall's presence, revel in the fact that he really washere, even though his hopes for this had been gone just a few hours ago. He felt shame for an instant that he'd just about given up on him, especially when Marilinda had been so much more hopeful about seeing her husband alive again. Christ, what a messed up situation this was. . .

"This?" Penhall said, touching the bandage. "Oh, I cracked my head somehow and it keeps opening up. Thanks for reminding me, I'll probably need to fix it again. Why? You want one? A little throwback to the McQuaids and all that?"

"Maybe for my ribs," Hanson answered absently, staring out past the fire. Penhall followed his gaze and saw what he was noticing – Marilinda slowly walking across the darkening field toward them. "What should we say?" Hanson whispered. "How do we –"

"Just – be sensitive," Penhall whispered back. "It's better to say nothing at all if you think you might say something stupid."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? _I guess that means I'm taking the " not-say-anything" route, _Hanson thought. _Because I know____whatever I say, it'll be stupid. What wouldn't____sound stupid right now?_

Marilinda reached the fire; neither he nor Penhall spoke, though both of them managed to look at her. She looked as if she were about to say something but dissolved into tears instead.

Immediately, Penhall set the baby into Hanson's arms and went to her, putting his arm around her shoulders and gently pulling her up against his side. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, even as the tears were still spilling from her eyes.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Penhall said. "We're the ones who are sorry – don't feel you have to apologize for anything."

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to lean against Penhall's shoulder for a little bit, until the baby began to fuss in Hanson's arms. He was hesitant to interrupt , but he knew he couldn't deal with the baby like he needed to – that would require him to stand and walk around with him, and Hanson knew that, between the pain and how weak he was, this was all but impossible. "It's o.k.," he whispered to the unhappy infant. He tried to shift him to another position but even that was difficult, and Hanson feared dropping him.

Marilinda raised her head. "I'll take him, Thomas," she said, her voice so low Hanson barely heard her. "He's probably hungry."

She came, took the baby from his arms and went with him to the opposite side, a little ways from the now blazing fire, her back to them as she fed him. Penhall came back and sat next to Hanson, visibly shaken. "Man, I hope she's o.k.," he said, in a subdued voice. "Maybe I shouldn't have given her that note until – we were safe."

"I don't think it's the note," Hanson said. It appeared as if he was gazing at the fire, but he was really watching Marilinda. He couldn't see her face, but he could tell that she was crying again, even as she was taking care of the baby. "Her husband's dead. You weren't going to be able to keep that from her."

"No." Silence again, until Penhall spoke. "We have to get out of here."

"Gee, you think?"

Penhall couldn't keep the smile from creeping onto his face. "I'm glad to see that a couple broken ribs haven't stolen your sarcastic wit, Hanson."

Twenty-four hours ago, Hanson would've never believed he'd be sitting here with Penhall, falling back into their usual banter, even in a situation like this. He still had a hard time believing Penhall was really here, alive and well. He eyed Marilinda again – God, what if that would've been her husband that came walking into the shelter today, telling him that Penhall hadn't made it? Telling him what his last hours had been like? Jesus, he couldn't even begin to imagine how he would've felt, what he would've done.

"Doug – I'm sorry," he began. "I didn't mean to sound like an ass just now –"

"It's o.k.," Penhall cut in. "I wouldn't expect you to be any other way. Well, you know what I mean."

"Do you think she'll be able to walk out of here tomorrow?" Hanson asked after awhile. They'd been sitting for a few minutes, the warmth from the fire lulling them into silence. "Do you think she'll be – ready?"

"She's not the one I'm worried about," Penhall answered. "I was thinking – maybe you and she should wait here – I could head down by myself, I'm sure it'd be quicker and I could cover a lot more ground if I was alone. . ."

"I'm not staying here, Doug." And Penhall could tell by his voice that he meant it. "And I'm pretty sure she won't either. And how much faster do you think you'll go if you end up getting hurt and there's no one around to help you?"

"Take it easy," Penhall said. "It was just a thought. She's just had a baby and you're -- well, you're in pretty bad shape. I was just trying to figure out a way to do this that would be best for all of us."

"The best way is for the three of us stay together. Even if it does take a little while longer than if you go alone."

"What if – you can't make it?" Penhall said. "Or what if she can't?" But he already knew Marilinda could physically do it – she wasn't the one who was in a tremendous amount of pain every minute, wasn't the one who couldn't breathe without it being a huge struggle. It was Hanson that he was uneasy about – as valiantly as he was pushing himself through it, Penhall could tell there was something markedly wrong with him, maybe even bordering on life-threatening if it went on too much longer. It wasn't just a matter of him getting through – it was a matter of him getting through alive.

"Then I guess we deal with it if it happens," Hanson said. "But I'm not staying behind. What good would that do?"

So, Penhall gave up. Eventually, Marilinda came back over to them, the baby asleep. She said very little, next to nothing, but she sat with them and appeared to listen to what he and Hanson were talking about at any given moment – what they should take with them, which way they should try, a little about what had gone on with Hanson and Marilinda the past three days. Penhall was careful not to say anything about his past three days, other than to tell them about the fork below the ridge that seemed to lead downward – a way off the mountain. He and Hanson were talking about the ridge – the one Penhall had climbed, the one that Hanson had looked down the day he'd made his trek in the sleet – when Marilinda stood up. "Douglas, what happened to your head?" It was really the first thing she'd said since she'd sat with them.

"Me? Oh – I must've hit it somehow – it's split open it in the back –"

"Let me see it." She went over to Hanson. "Thomas, would you mind holding him?"

He _did_mind, mainly because he wasn't sure if he could, the fear of dropping him always in the back of his thoughts. But he couldn't really refuse her, either – and truthfully, if he was going to try and walk out of here tomorrow, he was going to probably have to do a lot more to accomplish this than hold a newborn baby.

A lot more.


	9. DESCENT

**Don't own anything. . .except my 10 year-old minivan, which could go any day now. . .but I definitely don't own anything connected to 21 Jump street or Tom Hanson. . .sad, isn't it?**

They were standing at the top of the ridge that Penhall had climbed up the previous day. Just as Penhall had anticipated, their pace had been much slower than if he'd been on his own. Marilinda was the slowest of all of them, often lagging several feet behind, forcing Penhall to stop and wait for her. Despite her lack of speed, she did seem to have an endless amount of stamina, and while she was slow, she walked steadily, even with the added weight of the baby, and he thought she could probably walk for several hours if she had to.

He was more worried about Hanson. Unlike Marilinda, his pace was faster, but unlike her, he tired more easily, and they were forced to halt their progress more than once so he could rest and catch his breath. It didn't help that they were fighting off a steadily rising wind that whipped in spattering showers of cold rain without warning. Although Hanson didn't complain – in fact, he said very little at all – Penhall knew he had to be freezing – hell, he was cold himself – and that battling through the wind and the rain was taking every bit of strength he could muster.

/

The previous night had been long and unending, just like all the previous nights had been. Marilinda had, once again, offered the shelter to Hanson, felt she could stay outside now that they had a fire, but Hanson still wouldn't accept that, and really, with Penhall there, he didn't care where he stayed. It wouldn't matter anyway – the fire was nice to have but there was no real way for him to be comfortable, no likely chance that he'd get any real sleep regardless of where he was.

And he'd been right – long after Marilinda and the baby went inside, even well after Penhall had closed his eyes and fallen into some kind of sleeping state -- despite the hard ground and all the things he must've had on his mind – Hanson had remained awake, unable to find a way to make any kind of peace with the stabbing pain in his side or get rid of the constant chills that racked him despite the fact that he was practically lying on top of the fire. He hadn't really eaten anything the past few days and knew this wasn't helping matters any, but he also knew he couldn't manage it, either, no matter how much he knew he should try. Just drinking the melted snow was a chore, something he forced himself to do because either Doug or Marilinda made him.

_You're sick, Hanson._

_Well, no shit. Tell me something I don't already know._

_No – you're _really_ sick. Sick, as in, ' you may not be able to stay on your feet tomorrow.' Sick, as in ' you might have to let Doug go ahead with out you.'_

But there was no way he could do that, no way he would let Penhall out of his sight again, not when he'd nearly been convinced less than a day ago that he wouldn't see him alive again. Nothing – not the grueling pain in his side that was with him every second now, even when he was lying still, nor the misery of his throat being so sore he could barely swallow or even the horrifying feeling that he was slowly suffocating because he couldn't take a deep enough breath -- felt as terrible as the uncertainty of not knowing where Penhall had been, if he was alive or dead and, in the blackest moments, realizing he very well couldbe dead. Hanson wasn't about to go through that again, would crawl along the ground if he had to in order to follow Penhall.

So, near dawn, he'd forced himself to his feet and walked around by himself, trying to figure out what worked best as far as moving and breathing and what was absolutely no good. Just about everything was in the "no-good" category, but certain things were worse than others. If he just walked – didn't talk, didn't eat, didn't carry anything, didn't try to lift or reach for anything, didn't clear his throat, cough or breathe too deeply, just walked without doing much of anything else – then he thought he should be able to do it.

And he _had_ done it – they'd started walking toward the ridge early after sunrise, just as the first sheets of wind-driven rain began to slap into them. "Why can't the weather here ever stay normal?" he complained, handing the pilot's worn leather jacket back to Marilinda so she could use it to wrap the baby in. He had his concerns about making it down the mountain while carrying a newborn baby as well, but didn't say anything – whatever worries he might have, he knew she'd already thought of all of them, and probably half a dozen more.

"There's no such thing as "normal" weather in the mountains," she answered. "Every day is different." She took the jacket from him, biting her lip as she watched him shaking from the cold and the rain. "I'm sorry, Thomas," she said.

"Don't even say it," he told her. "I'm cold whether I have the jacket on or not." Which was true – it was probably the first truthful thing he'd let slip out about his own – situation – since they'd gotten here.

She reached out and laid her hand across his forehead, moved it down his cheek. "You're running a fever," she told him, confirming what he already knew. "We really need to get you somewhere like a hospital or a clinic." She wasn't bothering to sugar-coat anything with him anymore – he could see on her face that she wasn't going to allow him to just say whatever he thought she wanted to hear and get away with it.

"Marilinda, just – please don't let Doug know how -- what's going on. I know it's bad, you're right, but if he thinks I can't do it, he'll try and – keep me from going with him. As long as I can still walk, I want to try and get out of here."

"Of course," she said. "But he already knows that you're in rough shape – you aren't fooling him, you know. Just – make sure you drink enough water and let him – or me – know if you need to rest. There's no shame in that, you know."

And that was how they'd managed to make it to the ridge – the ridge that Hanson had come to think of as the "ridge of life and death" because it seemed to be the thing standing in their way of getting down the mountain or not.

"See?" Penhall said, as they wordlessly looked down it; only the baby made noise, shrieked actually, had been crying off and on for a better part of the journey. It'd been the first time that Hanson had really heard him cry since he'd been born, and while it had been initially unnerving, he found that he welcomed it in some kind of perverse way – the continual screaming gave him some kind of motivation, some kind of drive other than his own situation, to push forward. "It's not too bad. It's steep, but not impossible. I should know, I made it up fairly easy and I'm not what you'd call a mountain-climbing expert."

"Yeah, but you were climbing up," Hanson said. He remembered thinking how, when he'd first looked down this very ridge – and though it'd only been four days ago, it seemed like a lifetime – he had known neither he nor Marilinda would be able to get down it, not with her being pregnant, and he having the fucked up ribs. And now? Now she had an actual baby to get down and he had – well, the same fucked up ribs but the added problem of being dizzy and weak and carrying around a fever.

"Don't you think going down will be easier?"

"I think both ways are hard."

"Hard," Penhall said. "But not impossible. I did it."

"You weren't trying to carry a baby. Or feeling like you were about to pass out every time you moved."

Penhall shook his head. "I really think we have to go this way. And I think you both can do it."

"I'm willing to try," Marilinda said in a small voice. "I mean, I would have no problem with it – but I have Raphael to think about. I – I worry about losing my hold on him if -- I lose my footing. . ."

"Do you want me to take him?" Penhall asked gently. "I will – I would make sure nothing happened to him –"

"Doug –" Hanson began. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say; he just knew, after all that had happened, all they'd been through, that it was better not to make promises they couldn't necessarily keep, especially to someone who had believed her husband would be all right and then been told that he wasn't.

She looked downward again, seemingly at a loss. "No, I can take him," she murmured. "I – I need to be the one to take him – but thank you anyway for offering. I just – I don't think I can walk and carry him at the same time. I might have to crawl –"

"I knowI'll have to -- crawl – or something," Hanson said. "If I slip now – " his voice trailed off, but they knew what he was driving at. If he slipped now, did any more damage to himself, he might not be able to keep going.

"It makes no difference if you crawl or not," Penhall assured him. "Walk, run, slide – however you can get down the easiest. It looks steeper than it is." Which wasn't true, it was the other way around, but he knew he had to prod them along, be the one to cheerlead them on somehow. Both of them were beaten down and early on, Penhall had seen that he would have to be the one to lead the way.

"I'll go first," he told them. Doubt was written on both their faces, and Penhall tried to ignore it. "It'll be slippery in some spots – and there's some loose rock – but it's pretty solid otherwise. You just have to go slow. You can stop but there's no place to really – stay for very long – so once we start, we have to – keep going until we get to the bottom."

"How long?" Hanson asked.

"Not sure," Penhall answered, putting cheerfulness in his voice that he didn't feel. "I can't remember how long it took. It wasn't too long, though." It was amazing how easily the lies were slipping out, the ease with which he was sliding into the mode of false reassurance. In truth, he felt sick at the thought of Marilinda trying to get down with an infant to worry about, and he felt really nervous about Hanson being able to manage it without injuring himself further.

But there wasn't any other option.

They waited while Marilinda fed the baby one more time. Neither Penhall nor Hanson said anything, but they both understood that, if the temperature dropped and the already numbing rain turned into snow, they were going to have to scrap whatever plans they had to get out and focus on some way just to survive. They'd brought very little with them in the way of – well, anything, anything that they could use to survive out here, except for the lighter and what food Penhall could carry. Marilinda had some things –though very few – for the baby and that was it. With Marilinda having to carry the baby and Hanson unable to carry anything, they had no choice.

Despite her efforts to feed him, he wouldn't be pacified, and kept up the steady wailing that pierced through the howling wind. "I'm sorry, he isn't happy, I can't really get him to -- settle down,"

Marilinda apologized to them. Rain was dripping down her face, matting her hair to her head and for the first time, Hanson realized that this had to be pure hell for her, trying to take care of a newborn as well as herself in these kind of conditions. "Is he all right?" he asked her anxiously.

"I –I think so – it's just that I can't really – hold him and rock him like he needs – he's going to cry, I can't really do anything about that. . ."

"Don't worry about us," Penhall said. "Just worry about getting down without hurting him – or yourself."

And that was how they began their descent – the icy rain and the continual wind pummeling them at every moment until they were numb, the baby's screams rising and falling almost in time with the shrieks of the wind. The slope beneath them turned even more slick and they were all forced to make their way down on their hands and knees. They inched their way downward, and Penhall, not as worn down and more sure of his balance, carried the baby for brief spells. Hanson himself had far less trouble with the whole climbing-down thing than he thought he would – crawling was actually easier on him than anything else, and he didn't mind taking it slow, knew that he had, really, no other choice in the matter.

What he _did_ mind was the endless wind that whipped at him, because, though he could hardly believe it was possible, it made him feel even less able to catch his breath. He knew he would make it down, Penhall had been right, it wasn't as bad as it looked, but he also knew he'd be lucky to be able to walk another few feet once they got to the bottom, much less the miles it would take to reach help or civilization or whatever. It wasn't just the breathing and the pain from the cracked ribs that was exhausting him – it was the sharp pain that now pierced the upper left side of his back, it was fighting the constant urge to cough out whatever it was that was making his chest and lungs feel so heavy, knowing, full well that the kind of pain coughing would bring on would be intolerable to him.

Plus, he was so fucking cold. He knew Marilinda and Penhall had to be just as cold as he was, but they certainly seemed better at fighting their way through it. Hanson didn't know much about hypothermia or any of that, but he briefly wondered if that was his problem, on top of every other problem that he now had.

_Maybe Doug's right. Maybe you should stay behind, let him go on ahead_ _so he has a better chance of getting some kind of help. At the rate you're slowing everyone down, you'll be lucky to get out of here by Christmas._

_Oh, what, you want to let him walk out of here just so you can end up dying by yourself, Hanson?_

_Am I dying?_

_I_

_t sure seems that way, doesn't it?_

_He's trying to get you help and you're not letting him, Hanson._

_I don't want him to leave me alone again._

They made it to the bottom of the ridge in well over double the time it'd taken Penhall to climb up the day before – but they'd made it, and all in one piece. Penhall felt elated, like they were really on their way to getting out, but Marilinda quickly brought him back to reality. "I know you are eager to go," she said to him. "But I have to stop for awhile. I need a fire – if we can have one – because I really have to try and see if Raphael is all right. I have to try and feed him again and see if – I can get him to quiet down."

Hanson could've fallen down in relief. He knew Penhall was anxious to keep moving, but he also knew he wouldn't refuse her request either. And he didn't. The ridge ended near a thick woodland, and the density of the trees offered a slight shelter – it wasn't perfect, but it was enough to keep the rain and the wind at bay so Penhall could make a small fire. There were plenty of fallen logs to sit on, and while Penhall was gathering up some of the wood that was scattered around, Marilinda walked the baby back and forth in an effort to quiet him and Hanson sat down heavily on one of the logs, the dizziness that had plagued him on and off returning with a strength that only by closing his eyes and putting his head down across his arms did he manage to deal with without falling over.

"Thomas, what is it? Are you going to faint?"

Shit, why was he always pulling this in front of her, especially when she had the baby to worry about? "I hope not," he said weakly. "I think I'll be o.k. in a minute. I'm -- tired."

"Are you able to breathe all right?"

"Not really." He looked up at her and saw the fear on her face. "But it's the same – it's not – what you think, I don't feel like I'm worse. At least not yet."

She went over to where Penhall had dropped the knapsack and managed to pull a bottle of water out while still holding the squalling baby in one arm. "Drink this. If you get dehydrated, that'll make it worse."

"I don't think I can right now."

"In a little bit then. But you need to do it." She set the water by him, still rocking the baby. "What else? The pain is how terrible on a scale of one to ten?"

He undid the cover of the bottle, mainly so he'd have something to do while he faced her probing. "Ten," he finally answered. Why not be truthful with her? "Sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less."

Her face was very serious, very still. "Do you still think you have a fever?" she asked. "No, don't answer that, I know you do, I can tell by your eyes that you do. Any other pain? Anywhere?'

"My throat is sore," he said hesitantly. "But that might be from how – hoarse it's been."

"Your back? Your chest?"

"My back," he said, startled. "How did you guess that?'

"Where at?"

"Marilinda, I can't – reach to show – but it's high up –"

She frowned then, shifted the restless baby onto her shoulder. "Thomas, I think you might have pneumonia. Or at least some kind of – infection. I mean, I might be wrong, I hope I'm wrong, but the fever and the fact that you have the broken ribs, and this kind of thing happens a lot when a person has injuries like this – "

"Wonderful." He put the bottle of water to his lips and took the smallest of sips, hoping it would stay down.

"Your lungs – they feel like they have something in them?"

"I –" Shit, she was good, very good at what she did. He thought again, for the briefest of moments, of her and her husband doing this kind of thing together – knowing it was what they were meant to do, and then, in the blink of an eye, never doing it together again. "Kind of. I guess you could describe it like that."

Once more she moved the baby to her other shoulder, and looked across the grove of trees, as if calculating something in her mind. She looked back at him, and this time she looked distressed, almost as if she wanted to say something but was afraid to. "People get pneumonia all the time," he said. "You just said that you've seen this before. It's not like people don't get over it, right?"

"If they get something for it," she answered hesitantly. "But people do die from it – I've seen it happen."

Well, why not give it to him straight like that? He certainly didn't want her to hold anything back from him, especially about things having to do a life-or-death nature. "We'll be out of here before that," he said, more to reassure himself than her. "And maybe it's not that."

"Maybe."

They could see Penhall coming back with the wood – already, Hanson knew she was switching her thoughts back to trying to take care of her baby, and he felt a momentary sorrow for her, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, not even having had a chance to grieve for her dead husband yet, and now trying to attend to a new baby and _some stranger's problems_ on top of it. Really, he should be telling Penhall all this, not laying it at her feet.

_She's the one asking._

_Yeah, but what can she do about any of this? What can Doug do? _

_If something happens to you here, they're pretty much stuck having to watch you die._

_Not if you let Doug go on by himself. . ._

Hopefully, Hanson thought, it wouldn't come to that.

/

"Douglas, you are not sleeping?"

Penhall continued staring at the fire. "No."

They had stopped for the night just before dark after hiking a few more hours, coming to the edge of the forest and into a clearing much like the one that Hanson and Marilinda had been in. It had been Marilinda who'd helped him light the fire and get things ready – as much as they could get anything ready with what little they had – Hanson had laid down on the ground as soon as they'd stopped, not even caring that it was cold and wet, that there wasn't even a fire lit.

"Hanson, come on, we don't even have a fire going yet," Penhall had said to him.

"I know, I'm sorry, but I can't stay on my feet any longer," Hanson said, his eyes closing. "I'll get up again, you know I will, but I just can't right now."

"It is all right, "Marilinda had whispered to him, while she helped him look for more wood. "The rest can't hurt him. He obviously needs it."

And, just as he'd said, Hanson did manage to get up in awhile, was even able to eat the tiniest bit of fruit and drink some water – but he barely spoke and ended up falling into some kind of sleep in front of the fire—a restless, semi-conscious state in which he seemed to wake himself from every once in awhile, tossing and moaning in pain. "He was so much more --himself –last night," Penhall had said to Marilinda. "He's hardly said anything to me."

She heard the clear undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. "It's all right," she tried to reassure him. "Well, it's not "all right", I just mean that the fever is wearing him out and as for him not talking to you – everything he does is painful for him right now – "

That was when Penhall had started to believe he was going to have to ask Marilinda to stay behind while he went on alone.

"The baby woke you?"

This time, Penhall looked up at Marilinda and managed a smile. "Nope. I was already awake. But even if he did, I wouldn't have minded. I like hearing him. Reminds me that we're going to get through this."

Marilinda returned the smile. "Then why aren't you sleeping? You must be exhausted."

"Just – thinking," Penhall answered. His eyes flickered away from her, back to the fire. "I just -- "

"You are worried about Thomas?" Marilinda silently made her way over to Penhall and sat down next to him , adjusting the blanket over herself and Raphael before looking at him, letting him know she was listening.

"Yeah, I – " Everything suddenly poured out of him in a rush of words, words he hadn't even known he was thinking, much less about to say. "Do you think – and I know this is asking a lot, but I feel like I have to ask it – but, do you think you'd be willing to stay here with him while I go on alone? I know he doesn't want that, I know you don't want that, but – what if we have to walk for days? Or weeks? I can't see how he'll be able to do it."

She understood what he was saying, of course – they'd been the exact same thoughts she'd had earlier in the day, worries that he wouldn't be able to continue on at some point. She wondered if Douglas knew much about these kind of injuries – while she herself wasn't an expert, she'd allowed herself the horrible thought that he could very well be bleeding inside and, if that was true, there would be no way he'd be able to walk for even a few more days.

He might not even live through it, whether he was walking or not.

"It's – it's not that I'm not willing to stay with him," Marilinda finally answered. "But I do need to get Raphael somewhere soon – he needs things that I don't have with me. Of course, if we end up having to walk – for a long time – I'm still not going to have those things – it's just so hard, I don't know what you should do. I mean, he's not going to let you leave without a fight. He's afraid he's never going to see you again. But I'm sure you already know that."

Penhall wondered if she was thinking about her own husband – she had to be, and he instantly regretted bringing her into this at all. Yet, how could he not bring her into it – she was with them, she knew, probably more than he did, how critical the situation with Hanson was, had basically been the one taking care of him – as much as he would allow, anyway – there was no way he couldn't mention all of this to her.

Still.

"How are _you_doing?" Penhall asked after they'd sat in silence for a moment.

"Me?" She seemed surprised at the question. "I'm o.k. – I am a little tired from – you know – having a baby but I think I am doing all right with –"

"No, I can see you're doing all right with – that part of it," Penhall said gently. "I mean, how are you holding up?"

She looked straight ahead, into the fire, the baby asleep in her arms. "I feel – strange," she finally murmured. "Like I haven't really thought about – Michael – or what's happened. . .but at the same time, it is all I think about. Does that even make any sense?"

"Completely," Penhall said. It was very similar to how he'd felt coming home from El Salvador with Clavo that first time – it was eerie how she was putting into words that very feeling he himself had experienced. He would have liked to say more, comfort her in some small way, but he knew it was too soon, knew she wasn't near ready to hear that yet, would probably not be ready for awhile.

_Besides, _he thought, as he watched her go and lie down with the baby, _she has that little one to worry about still. Hanson's not the only one who needs to get out of here – it's not like the baby can be out here indefinitely._

Again, as the dawn lightened the sky, Penhall's thoughts turned to how he could get out of here and get some help as soon as possible.

**O.k., I need to end it here – mainly because the next part is, well, the homestretch of the entire thing – I'm sorry, you guys, there are so many good Jump Street stories out there right now and I feel like I've put out this self-indulgent – I don't know what to call it. I don't know, I'm almost embarrassed to post this, like I said, there are so many good Jump Street stories being written and this doesn't seem like "real" Jump Street, just my version of Penhall/Hanson doing whatever – I hope I didn't stray too far, sorry about the lack of action, the next part should be a little better – if you all still want to see it, that is. . . as always, thank you for reading and bearing with me. . .**


	10. HAVEN

**All right, first, thanks to all of you who took the time to read and review. . .your kindness has been overwhelming. . .thanks also to those of you who are reading, I do appreciate that as well. . .as promised, we're entering the homestretch heading into the final run. . .though, with me, that could take awhile. . .don't own it, don't own Hanson, would like to, but life didn't work out that way. . .**

For the first time since this whole ordeal had begun, Hanson was actually asleep when the sun came into view – well, he guessed he wouldn't call it "sleep," sleep inferred resting and he felt far from rested when Penhall shook him back to consciousness, but it was the first time in days where he hadn't greeted the sunrise while pacing around by himself, trying to alleviate the ghastly pain or find a way to breathe that was half-way normal, that wasn't going to be too deep to hurt or to shallow to make him dizzy and faint. No, he was well past that at this point – lying, standing, walking, breathing fast, breathing slow – it made no difference, he was so far entrenched within the pain that he had given up on trying to fight it, had really basically surrendered to it, not knowing what else to do.

Or maybe it was that, now that Penhall was here, he could actually give in a little, could sink back and focus on his own problems while he allowed Penhall to take over some of the responsibilities that he'd had to shoulder alone at first. Not that he still didn't have a sense of obligation toward – everyone – but it was just such a fucking relief to have Doug there, to hopefully take some of this mess on when he was so much more capable of handling it than he was.

Of course, breathing was a different matter – he didn't think he'd give up on doing that just yet, but even that had changed in the last few hours – it was still a struggle, but it was definitely different now – the continual fullness that had been there before was still present, but it had given way to something else, a sensation of not just being able to breathe right but feeling some kind of crackling sound every time he drew what little air in he could. Well, he supposed it was all part of whatever was going on with him, it was probably the next logical step in what happened to someone who got this kind of injury and didn't get it taken care of, but for the first time he wondered if this was how it was going to play out for him, if he didn't have some kind of internal bleeding going on and if, at some point, Penhall and Marilinda would have to watch him strangle in his own blood.

For now, though, he still had enough in him to try and convince Penhall otherwise – Hanson knew he was still thinking about trying to convince him and Marilinda to remain behind while he went on alone, and while he didn't think Marilinda would agree to this – he knew_ he_ wouldn't – Hanson was certain that they'd have to address it at some point, especially if Penhall knew he was in as much trouble as he really was.

"Did you get any sleep?" Penhall was asking him hopefully, while they waited for Marilinda to feed the baby. The tone of his best friend's voice put Hanson to shame for a moment – he knew Penhall was worried, that his only motive for Hanson to remain behind would be because he felt it was the best thing for him, and nothing more – it wasn't like he was trying to leave him behind for some other ulterior reason – but good motive or not, Hanson couldn't allow it. It was a bad plan – too much could happen and if something was going to happen to him, he wanted Penhall with him this time.

It was as simple as that.

"Not really," Hanson said. His voice was barely a croak – and he didn't get that, either, why that had given him so much trouble through all this, pretty much from the start – and he forced himself to drink more water, in hopes that it would help. He longed to just take a full breath in and cough, to try and get rid of the – whatever it was that had settled so deeply into his throat and chest – but he was actually afraid of how much that would hurt, how, if he did something like that, he might not be able to recover from that kind of pain. He was pretty certain that the pain he was in right now was at the very limits of what he could cope with and that to do anything besides the shallow breathing he'd become used to would take away whatever little bit of strength he had left. There were certain things he knew he could manage, and breathing deep and coughing wasn't one of them. He thought fleetingly of the day Penhall had arrived, how hard he'd wept at the sight of him – and while he remembered that being painful, no question, it hadn't been so terrible that he couldn't overcome it. But now? Two days later? He knew, at this point, he'd never be able to withstand something like that either.

_Promise me you'll say something if it gets worse, Thomas._

But she already knew he was getting worse – what was there for him to say? And what could she do here, out in the middle of nowhere?

"Well, do you – feel any better?"

"Penhall, look at me. Do I look like I feel any better?" He knew he sounded irritated – and he was – but it wasn't because of Penhall.

Penhall understood. He welcomed the annoyance he heard in Hanson's voice – it was a far better sound to him than the whispered apologies and the moans of pain from the night before. "You want the truth?" he asked.

"Sure," he answered, forcing himself to take another swallow of water. "I'm nothing if not for being truthful."

"You look terrible. You couldn't look worse. I've never seen you look so bad."

"Thanks, Penhall, why don't you just say what you really feel next time – I wouldn't want you to hold anything back." Really, Hanson knew it was true – and he didn't care what Penhall said, he knew what Doug was doing, understood he wanted to hear him come back with some kind of caustic reply, needed to make sure that he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't still be his old self.

And as long as he was able, Hanson was willing to do it for him.

"So, you're probably not going to want to hear this – "

"You know I'm not – going to. When's that ever stopped you?"

Penhall hesitated for a moment. "We might have to walk a long ways, you know."

"I'm well aware of that."

"I asked Marilinda last night if she would – be ok – staying behind with you while I went for help."

Hanson didn't answer. Penhall rushed on as if he was afraid of losing his nerve. "She didn't say yes – she's worried about the baby, she wants to get him to safety as soon as possible. . ."

"Don't you think that's the most important thing?' Hanson interrupted. Of course, he knew Penhall felt that way, knew that he was probably thinking about it all the time.

"It is," Penhall answered softly. "But he seems to be doing – well. I mean, as well as a baby can be doing in these kind of circumstances. You're the one we're worried about."

Hanson closed his eyes and held the container of water up to his forehead. He could feel the heat radiating from his face, the tenderness of his cheekbones where he'd smashed into – whatever it was that he'd hit – when the plane had gone down. So now it was "we're" worried about him, the two of them discussing him when he wasn't listening. He still didn't think Marilinda would stay behind – not unless something was wrong with her or the baby – and that she would allow him to decide for himself whether he was able to go on or not.

Speaking of, she had come up to them while they sat, was silently standing and listening to what they were saying – or trying to say – Hanson still wasn't sure what Penhall was driving at. No, that wasn't true – he knew what Penhall wanted, he wanted him to come up with the reassurances that he'd be all right, that he'd be able to do this, that he wasn't going to collapse and die on them.

Again, Hanson obliged.

"If I walk slow enough, and rest when I need to – then I'll be able to do it," he said. He knew this probably wasn't true, especially if last night's inability to do anything once they'd stopped was any indication or, even worse, he wouldn't be able to breathe at all, couldn't find a way to continue pulling even the small amount of air he was somehow managing to draw in now.

"But what if help isn't that far away – don't you think it'd be better for me to get it and bring it back here while you rest and don't hurt yourself any further?"

"What if help is days away? What then?"

"Don't you think that's still better than you trying to – walk when – it could – hurt you more?"

"Maybe if we were – oh, I don't know, in the Chapel talking about this and you actually knew where you were going, and how to find your way back. But here? I think that's – crazy." Just that little bit of talking was killing his throat, taking every bit of lung power he had, but he knew he was right. For Penhall to go on alone would be – well, like some kind of suicide mission.

"I think Thomas is right." Both of them turned to look at her. "What if you get lost? Or what if you can't find us once you do get help? These mountains are – huge."

"What if you get hurt?" Hanson interrupted. "How would we know it or not? How would we even know where to find you? The whole idea is crazy."

"That might happen anyways," Penhall said. "If you can't – keep going. Then I'll have to go on by myself."

"Why?" Hanson demanded. "Why wouldn't you just stay with us, even if something like that did happen?"

"Because!" Penhall slammed his own water onto the ground in frustration. "I can't just sit around and –" _watch you die right in front of me, it was hard enough for me to do that when I was watching someone I didn't know, I'd never be able to stand it if it was _you___that it was happening to._ He barely stopped these last words from spilling out, only the sight of Marilinda standing there holding the baby reminding him that it was her husband that he was referencing. "Not do something," he finished lamely, choking back the words he really wanted to say.

"Jesus, Doug, we **are **doing something," Hanson said. "What else can we do?"

"We have to keep going the way we are," Marilinda agreed. "It won't help to say "what if" until it happens. But we can't leave anyone behind. At least, that is what I think. It would be foolish to do anything else at this point. We don't know enough about how far away from everything we are and Thomas – he – and I – need you with us."

Penhall looked at both of them. He knew they were right, but he couldn't stop himself from picturing what might happen to them a week down the road, when they had nothing left to eat and a newborn baby to feed. Not to mention Hanson who, if he had the severe internal injuries they thought he had, would never be able to stay on his feet the next couple of days, let alone anything past that.

_You mean stay alive, don't you Penhall?_

He had to quit thinking about it at all, had to do what Marilinda said, what Hanson wanted: not think about what might happen.

The sooner they started walking, the better off they'd be.

But they were almost finished before they got started. The sun was warm and there was only a slight breeze – that, combined with the remaining snow pack made the temperature fairly comfortable and, coupled with the level terrain that looked to stretch endlessly before them, made it comfortable for walking.

Except, their pace was slow. Even with the good weather and the easy walking conditions, Penhall knew they'd be walking for weeks at the rate they were going. They'd be lucky to cover a few miles – at best – by the end of the day. Even if they continued walking through the night – which Penhall knew wasn't going to happen, neither Hanson nor Marilinda would ever be able to manage it – they would never get to safety before the food ran out or Hanson simply couldn't go on anymore.

_Penhall, you said you weren't going to think about that. Maybe you're covering more ground than you think._

_Fuck, maybe that doesn't even matter – we could be covering twenty miles but if we're wandering in circles or nowhere near – anything – what difference does it make?_

_Hanson won't be able to walk twenty miles. Marilinda might be able to, but what happens when there's no food for her to eat and she – can't feed the baby? Do you sit with Hanson and watch him die first, and then watch the baby –_

_Just keep going, Penhall. Quit begging for trouble_. _Everyone's managed so far. . ._

They walked through the morning hours, none of them saying much. The baby fussed and cried off and on and they stopped twice so Marilinda could tend to him, but it was really Hanson who benefited from the imposed breaks. It wasn't hot by any means, and the temperature couldn't have been warmer than in the forty degree range, but the sun beating down on his head made it nearly impossible for him to drag his already fever-racked body past a crawl. The last time they stopped, around noon, before even feeding the baby, Marilinda went and scooped up a huge handful of snow, and had him hold it to his forehead while she had Penhall place the rest against the back of his neck. "Make him drink this," she instructed Penhall. "After I feed Raphael, we might have to see about – waiting for awhile and walking later on, when it's not so hot."

"I wouldn't call this weather hot, exactly," Penhall muttered, once Marilinda had moved off and he was certain she couldn't hear him.

"Doug. . ."

"Hanson, we're getting nowhere. This is taking forever – and this is no offense to you, I know you're doing the best you can, I know Marilinda is as well, but we are never going to get out of here at this rate." He knew he was beginning to sound like a prick, could tell that, no matter how he tried to couch his words in a veneer of explanation, he was coming across as blaming them for how long it was taking. And it wasn't even Marilinda who he felt was holding them back, not really; her pace was slow, she did have to stop at times, but he knew she was in no danger of not being able to press forward, and her tediousness was not an indication of how far she'd be able to go.

Hanson looked up at him, a spark of anger flashing from his eyes. "What the hell is with you?' he demanded. "You act like we're – I'm – taking my time because I'm enjoying the sights or something. Christ, Doug, you're making it seem like this is some kind of – race." He threw his handful of snow to the ground and began drinking the water Marilinda had left, not because he wanted it – he didn't – but because he could feel himself getting ready to lay into Penhall, and he really didn't want to go down that particular path at the moment.

"It is a race!" Penhall hissed. "We don't have time to be fucking around – we don't have all that much food, we have a – a baby to take care of and you – just in the last two days I can see how much worse you've gotten – so, yeah, it is a race, it's a race to stay alive or haven't you noticed that?"

"Of course I've noticed," Hanson hissed back, setting the water down, the little bit he'd managed to drink already making him feel as if he were about to be sick. That'd be all he'd need – something else to fuel Penhall's campaign to continue on by himself. "In case you've forgotten, I'm the one who's living it, remember?"

"This isn't going to work."

"It's going to have to."

"I could cover three times the distance if I was by myself."

"You could be dead by tomorrow and Marilinda and I would never know it." Hanson had to stop himself from saying anything else – it was still too raw to think about how he'd thought that just a couple days earlier, he'd never see Penhall again. Abruptly, he stood up, even though he knew he'd pay for it in a few minutes with the usual dizziness and lightheadedness.

Penhall caught his arm. "Hey," he said. "So could you. Be dead by tomorrow." Once the words were out, sitting between them, Penhall softened. He kept hold of his arm, so Hanson was forced to look at him. "I'm trying to keep that from happening – I – don't think I can –"

"Douglas –"

Marilinda. They could see her several feet away, staring off at something in the distance. _Now what? _Penhall thought. _What other bad news is there ?_

He and Hanson came and stood beside her. "I am certain I can't be right," she said to them, never taking her eyes from whatever it was she was looking at. "But look out – way over there, past that hill or whatever it is – and tell me what you see."

For several moments they all stared. Hanson saw nothing, other than the rocky ground spreading out before them and a ridge of some sort rising in the distance. The sky was cloudless and there were few trees between them and – whatever it was she was seeing.

Penhall kept looking. "It almost looks like smoke rising up from there," he finally said. "But I can't be sure – it could be –"

"Yes, smoke, that's what I think!" Marilinda interrupted excitedly. "I am almost sure that's what it is, I've been looking for awhile, it has been there a long time – what else could it be?"

They continued looking. "Maybe we're seeing things," Hanson finally said. He _thought_ he could see what she was talking about, an almost imperceptible tendril of white smoke way off in the distance that drifted against the blue sky.

"All three of us?" Penhall said.

"Maybe we're closer than we think!" Marilinda rushed on. "How far do you think that is, Douglas? Can we walk there by tonight? Or tomorrow?"

"I'm no good at judging that kind of thing – especially here," Penhall admitted. "But I know we can get there. _I_ could get there – and then I could get someone to come and get you –"

Both of them protested at once.

"Douglas, no, we can walk it – "

"That's stupid, Doug, what if it isn't anything? Then you'd have to come back for us –"

So, once more, but this time, with cautious optimism and not a little bit of hope, they began trekking toward the smoke that was definitely rising before them. Penhall went on ahead, unable to wait for the other two knowing they were possibly close to some real help. Hanson and Marilinda let him go; Hanson had no choice and Marilinda, though she could've kept up with Penhall, elected to stay with him, ostensibly to wait for him, to keep him company, but really because she was beyond being worried about him now, could see that, if there wasn't some kind of help up ahead for him, he most likely wouldn't be able to go on much further. It wasn't that he was going so slowly – she expected that, and was actually surprised he was moving as well as he was, considering how much pain he had to be in. It was other things she noticed, things like how he wasn't eating or barely drinking anything – she knew he was trying, was doing the best he could, but his body would only be able to go so long before he'd be too dehydrated to function – and with the fever he was bearing, especially one as high as his appeared to be – she knew the dehydration would catch up with him sooner rather than later.

"Thomas, are you still able to breathe all right?"

He looked over at her, surprised. "Yeah, I think," he answered. To him, it was the same as it had been the whole time. "Why?"

"What happens when you take a deep breath in?"

"I can't – you know I can't." As if to please her, he stopped and tried to breathe as deeply as he could, but couldn't get past the shallow pant he'd grown used to. "See? I –" he grimaced, unable to keep from turning away from her and doubling over for an instant, the pain so great from just that small effort alone. "Jesus!"

She stepped closer to him, dismayed that even that small attempt was too much for him. "Besides the pain, how does it feel when you breathe?" she asked urgently. "Do you feel like – your lungs have something in them? Like they are filled with – water ? Like that?"

Now that she described it, that was exactly what they felt like. "They're full of something," he admitted. "I can hear it when I breathe – but it's been like that for awhile now. Why? What do you think it is?"

She bit her lip; the baby began fussing and she lifted him to her shoulder, almost grateful to have something else to focus on for a moment while she gathered her thoughts. "We should keep walking," she murmured.

He fell into step with her, but didn't say anything. He didn't really need her to tell him how bad it was – he knew, had known it for awhile. "I'm sorry about Doug running ahead like he is," he finally said, thinking he was changing the subject. "He's usually got better manners than that, I mean, I know he's in a hurry – "

"No, he's right to hurry," Marilinda interrupted. Even as she walked, she looked aside at him – he was pale and thin but, of course, she imagined they all were, and just remembering him from the first time they'd met – that hot day out on the airfield, when Michael was still alive and they'd had no inkling of what was about to come – she knew he wasn't a very big person to begin with. Strong, yes – incredibly so – but not large in size. "You – have you been bleeding at all?"

"No, not that I know of." The alarm in her voice was beginning to rattle him. What was she seeing that was suddenly scaring her like this?

"Coughing up blood? Anything like that?"

"No, of course not – I would say something if that happened." But would he? Not that it mattered, nothing like that had gone on yet, in fact he'd been doing everything he could not to cough up anything, just because of how much he knew it would hurt. "Is that what you think – that I'm – bleeding?"

"I – I can't say that," she confessed. "I – you – would need to be in a hospital to find out for certain – but I'm just – worried about it because if you **are** bleeding inside out here – in the middle of nowhere – I wouldn't know what I could do about it – " her voice trailed off.

"Maybe I'm just sick, like you said."

"Well, that I think is true – you definitely have some kind of sickness going on – but, well, maybe you're right, that is maybe all it is, we shouldn't go looking for trouble, I am not always right about these things. It is – was – my husband who knew what was wrong with a person when they came to see him – " She quickly stopped herself and managed to give him a small smile. "I shouldn't even say anything else – and you – I know hard it is for you to talk, and here I am making you answer all these questions. Just ignore me."

"It's all right," he said. "And I definitely won't ignore you." And he wouldn't; she had every right to ask him questions when she was one of the people trying to do what she could to get him out of here alive. But they continued to walk in silence after that, the quiet only broken by the sounds of the baby, until they caught up with Penhall.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and the temperatures began to plummet with it. Hanson began to shiver, even though he had the leather jacket on, even though, not two hours ago, the heat from the sun had threatened to keep him from being able to walk during the daylight hours. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket, tried to tell himself he really wasn't all that cold, but it didn't help.

Nothing did anymore, when he thought about it.

"I don't think we're very far off," Penhall enthused when they came up to him. But it was hard to tell – the smoke was harder to see in the waning sunlight. "Except for the ridge we need to climb up, the ground looks pretty level. I say we keep going, through the night if we have to. What do you think?"

"Doug, we have a baby with us," Hanson reminded him. "I don't think – we should be climbing anything – in the dark."

"It's not really a ridge like that other one," Penhall said. "It looks more like a hill. I don't think it'll be nearly as hard." Both Hanson and Marilinda remained silent, each for their own reasons. "We could keep walking right now," Penhall amended. "Even if we get to the hill thing and decide it's too risky to climb at night, we would at least be that much closer and we could get over it first thing in the morning."

"You don't want us to stop at all? Not even for a little bit, to rest and have a fire?" Marilinda asked him.

Penhall hesitated; Hanson knew he wouldn't deny her, would never put his needs ahead of the baby's, especially if she asked. "We can stop for awhile," he said. "I guess I should've asked you first, what you want to do – both of you. It's just that – I – well, you know what I think."

"I don't really mind if we walk tonight," Marilinda said. And Hanson knew she was thinking of him, she was as worried about what was going on as Penhall was and was willing to get him somewhere as soon as she possibly could. He also understood she wouldn't come right out and admit this, but he knew that was what she was doing. "But I need to stop now and – be with Raphael for awhile – you know, make sure I can feed him and see that he is – all right."

They built a fire – well, Hanson had to admit, Penhall was the one who did all the work regarding that – and made their plans to walk through the night. They did have the flashlight, which Hanson had forgotten about, and Penhall would have to go slow so as to make sure they wouldn't stumble over some unforeseen – whatever – in the darkness. Any reservations Hanson had about doing this began to fade from his thoughts – night was hardest on him, it had been from the start. It seemed like, during the day he could push himself better, had more in him to get past whatever he needed to get past in order to keep going, but by nightfall, he could tell he was at his weakest, felt cold and exhausted, the pain in his side piercing enough that he couldn't rest even though he was so tired, the other things – the fever, the dizziness, the back pain, all of it – seemingly more intense in the dead of night.

They started off a couple hours later, once they could see that the baby was going to sleep for awhile. Both Penhall and Marilinda seemed rejuvenated by the rest, Penhall especially, whose enthusiasm couldn't be contained. Hanson just hoped it was warranted; if the smoke or whatever it was turned out to be nothing, he wasn't sure what would happen after that. He would, of course, keep walking as long as he was able, but it wasn't going to be for very much longer. He said nothing of this to Penhall or Marilinda, but, of course, he didn't have to.

They already knew.

They walked through the night and, by keeping the hill or ridge or whatever it was in their sights, managed to follow some sort of path that seemed to be leading them in a fairly straight line. No one spoke much, Penhall was too busy concentrating on finding any obstacles they might trip over in the dark and Marilinda was doing her best to keep the baby asleep for as long as possible. Hanson couldn't have talked if he'd wanted to. All his efforts were going into putting one foot in front of the other. He found himself thinking of nothing and many different things all in the same minute. His mother—shit, this had to be hell for her, to think he was probably dead. He didn't allow himself to linger on that thought – it would make him too sad to think about her alone, reliving the early days after his father's death, and he couldn't afford to be sad at the moment.

Of course, he thought of his father, all kinds of crazy, random thoughts, but always coming back to the last time he'd seen him alive, the regret that he'd not really said goodbye, not really told him how much he loved him, that all he'd had to cling to these past eight years was the memory of that last night, how happy he'd been, his father's love for him clearly evident – like it always was – in the look on his face, in the sound of his voice. This was hardly the first time he'd thought of his father this way, not even close, but for some reason the memory of him was hitting him crystal clear, almost as if everything was playing out right in front of him.

There were other things he thought of, things he would never have expected to think about in a situation like this: his time at Folsom, how his spirit had very nearly been broken, how, even though he was in far greater danger right now than he'd ever been in while in prison, he felt so much stronger right at this very moment than he ever had then; but of course, it wasa different situation, completely different, but he still wondered about it.

Yet, there were other times he thought of nothing – he literally forgot where he was and what he was doing. He knew it was the fever and the other things that were wrong with him making him lose track of time and place, but he didn't mind this either. It wasn't unpleasant – only the physical things were distressing, the pain and the shallow breathing – but otherwise, he felt like he was at peace. As much peace as he could be in, anyway.

_Because Doug's here. Isn't that all that really matters?_

**O.k. I'm stopping this chapter here because it's already sooo long, and the next one promises to be quite long as well. This next one is pretty much – not the end, but the highlight/climax/whatever of the entire thing. I won't apologize for this chapter (because you nice people have told me not to) but I will remind everyone that it's lengthy because that's the only way I know how to move from one thing to another. Good luck wading through it, hope you enjoy. . ****.**


	11. THE PROMISED LAND

**O.k., um, not going to apologize because people have told me not to – but I will offer the following disclaimer: This is long. Really long. And full of, well, stuff. Just about any kind of stuff you can imagine. How good the stuff is, I really don't know, but read and try to enjoy. This isn't the end, but I am pretty sure the next installment will be. That might not go up for a little bit – but hopefully before my kids are home for summer break. Love you guys, you're all super for even making an attempt to wade through all this!**

He hovered between consciousness and unconsciousness, never completely awake or asleep, unable to tell what was real and what was an offshoot from his fevered mind. He knew that they'd made it to some kind of safety – the last thing he remembered with certainty was dragging himself over the hill, not because it was that difficult to maneuver but because his legs were threatening to give out – and Penhall somehow half pulling him across a rocky expanse of ground toward some kind of – houses. No, house was the wrong word – shacks were really what they were, and at the sight of them, Marilinda had handed the baby to Penhall without a word and hurried to the closest one and begun pounding on the door, calling something in Spanish. "Marilinda, wait!" Penhall had shouted, and Hanson had known exactly what he was thinking, that he was worried about her barging in on some unknown situation where she could easily startle someone into hurting her or worse. But it had worked out somehow – Hanson wasn't really sure about the actual sequence of events at this point, he only knew that people came out and Marilinda was speaking in Spanish without a pause, and the baby woke up in Penhall's arms and began shrieking, and they were led inside one of the houses and the very last thing Hanson could remember from that was trying to find a place to sit down because he could feel the floor beginning to waver beneath him.

He knew he was lying on some kind of – bed – his body weighted down with several blankets and that, for the first time in a long while he wasn't cold at the moment. He felt like he was never awake for more than a few seconds at a time, and when he was, he didn't have the energy to open his eyes. He could hear everything though, some of it strange and nightmarish and other things somewhat pleasant: he could hear voices, female voices talking in hushed tones in Spanish, and he liked hearing them even though he was clueless as to what they might be saying. At other times, someone – Doug, he thought – was trying to get him to drink water, or something, and he tried to do it, knew that they wanted him to be able to drink something, but he couldn't get it down, one sip and he knew he would be sick if he drank anymore, and he knew he didn't want that to happen, like anything else that put any stress on his broken ribs, that would be too painful for him to deal with. Later on, though, he thought someone was next to him – Marilinda? Doug again? – putting little pieces of ice in his mouth, and that was all right, he thought he could handle that without getting sick. At one point, he managed to open his eyes and keep them open and he saw Penhall sitting next to him but asleep with his head on the edge of the bed. "Doug," he said, but his voice came out no more than a whisper, and he could already feel himself sinking back into sleep, and the next time he awoke, he wasn't sure if he'd said anything or if Penhall had even been there at all. He wasn't sure about anything happening to him, he had no way of distinguishing what was real and what was not.

/

Penhall had no clue what was going on – not with Hanson, not with where they were or whom they were with, not with anything – everything was being conducted in rapid-fire Spanish, and only Marilinda was able to bring their circumstances to light. The only thing that was definite was these people – whoever they were – were trying to take care of too many things all at once – the baby, Hanson, how to get them to the nearest hospital and the story of the plane crash itself. Penhall understood nothing of what was being said – the only thing that he did get was that they wanted him to eat and drink and were continually shoving food into his hands. He washungry, but he almost couldn't think about that just yet, not with Hanson delirious in another room, possibly bleeding out while they sat here and tried to figure out what to do next.

Instead, he went and sat down by the bed where Hanson lay sleeping – though Penhall couldn't call it sleep, not when he'd passed out just a little while before. There were women who occasionally came in to check on him – they would speak to Penhall so quickly that he was forced to tell them, "No habla espanol," even though he did speak a little Spanish – but he would never be able to hold a conversation with these people. He thought of trying to get Hanson to wake up, then thought better of it, realized he needed to sleep or rest or whatever it was, and went back out to find Marilinda.

She was just coming in from outside somewhere; he marveled at how much energy she seemed to have, almost as if she hadn't had a baby a few days ago and been walking for miles since then. She had to be exhausted – but, of course, her adrenalin was probably flying right now in her efforts to get Hanson and the baby somewhere safe. "Oh, Douglas, good, we need to talk," she said the minute she saw him, pulling him back outside with her. The sun was up but the day was raw and gray—thank God they'd made it to – wherever this was. Penhall had a million questions for her but had no chance to even get the first one out.

"How is Thomas?" The first words out of her mouth.

"He's –he's asleep, I guess – is he sleeping, Marilinda? You saw how he – passed out right in front of us –"

"Like the other day," she answered hurriedly. "He – I don't know, I think he is bleeding inside somewhere. I don't know for sure, but everything points to that – and if that's true, then he needs to get to a place where they can stop it."

"What about these people? They seem like they're – helpful. Can't they do anything?"

"These people – they are just a family living here – I'm still not even sure who is who, what all the relationships are, but look around you, Douglas, you can see they have nothing – I mean, they are trying to help, but they won't be able to do much more than what we were doing for him."

He felt immediate defeat. "So, we're basically back where we started."

"Oh, no, it's not that bad – they told me that there is a place further down the mountain – some kind of city, I can't remember the name, but it is big enough so that it has a clinic of some kind with doctors –"

"I'll go right now," Penhall interrupted. "Just straight down from here?"

She caught his arm before he could go any further. "No – it's not – it's far away, at least from what these people are telling me – and I have to tell you, I'm not getting every word that they are saying, it's Spanish but the dialect is not one we hear in El Salvador, so I could be messing some things up, I need to talk to them again –"

"Talk to them about what?"

"About how long it will take us to get down to this city."

"Marilinda, Hanson won't be able to walk down this mountain – you see how he is, you just said yourself that you think he's bleeding – someone's going to have to bring someone up here to get him."

She hesitated. "I wish that could happen," she said. "But from what I understand, there's no way to get someone up here – it's not like there are roads or anything – and I'm not even sure what kind of clinic this is, it could have nothing in it but a doctor and a couple boxes of bandaids – "

"How far is it?"

"At least a few hours on foot – that was part of what I couldn't understand –"

"Marilinda, he can'twalk on foot – not even a few minutes."

"No, I know – but I am trying to see if someone can take us down by mule – I don't know if you noticed, these people have mules here, that is how they get around."

Penhall's relief was instantaneous. "Why didn't you say so?" he said. ""We can go as soon as Hanson wakes up."

"But it's not as easy as all that, Douglas – we have to see what they are willing – and able – to do for us. I mean, we just barged into their home a little while ago, I know they're willing to help us, they already are, but we can't just take their things and start ordering them around."

Of course they couldn't – she was right, and she certainly knew more about this sort of thing than he did. "I'm not trying to push you – or them," he finally said. "I mean, I'm just anxious, it seems like we're so close – but you're doing great, you've already done more than I could ever repay you – tell me what you need me to do and I'll do it." He stopped, as if suddenly remembering something.

"Where's the baby – is he –"

"He's fine, he is with the women, I do need to get back to him, I just wanted to talk to you."

"But he's all right?"

"Yes, he's – they're taking care of him, you know, they saw a new baby and they couldn't keep their hands off him, but I know he's fine, especially now that he can be cleaned up and – I want to go sit with him for at least a little while."

"What should I do about Hanson?"

"Go and try to get him to drink something when he wakes up. Don't worry, I'll come in a little bit, as long as he's breathing all right we can let him sleep – but he needs to drink something. I know I keep pushing that and he's probably tired of me harping on him about it, but so much can go wrong so quickly if he is dehydrated. But other than that, I don't know what else we can do – we need to get him out of here as soon as we can arrange it –"

"You'vedone plenty," Penhall said gently, putting his hands on her shoulders. "You've probably saved his life, or at least kept him going these past few days." It was extraordinary for him to even contemplate how much she'd invested in both Hanson, and to a lesser degree – himself – when she herself had lost so much.

"Oh, no, it's not like that at all – he's kept himself going, probably for you more than anything. And don't forget, he saved my son's life. I mean, he'll never know how grateful I am for that – especially now –" She stopped abruptly, then went in a different direction. "Make sure he is able to breathe all right – and if he can't, I want you to come and get me – but I'll come see him soon, after I talk to these people again about what we are going to have to do."

So Penhall went back to Hanson, did as he was told and tried to get him to drink the water. It was nearly impossible, he wasn't awake long enough to participate, but even when he was conscious for a few moments, Penhall couldn't coax him into doing it, and whether this had to do with Hanson being unable or unwilling to cooperate, Penhall wasn't sure. It was Marilinda, when she returned awhile later, who gave him the idea of feeding him pieces of ice so that he'd at least be getting some kind of fluid. And that was how the rest of the day proceeded: Hanson sleeping, Penhall sitting watch beside him and Marilinda in and out with new information for him. Sometimes she had the baby with her, other times people from the extended family came in, but mostly it was just her and Penhall, talking in subdued whispers. At one point, Marilinda pulled back the blankets and studied Hanson intently. "I wish we could go right now," she finally said. "I think he is really in trouble."

Penhall had no idea how she could be seeing that – he'd actually thought Hanson was doing better – at least somewhat better – and had felt hopeful that this was going to be easier than he'd first thought. "Why?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"See how he's breathing?" she asked. "Watch when he breathes in – how his ribs push inward instead of out, like they should."

Penhall couldn't see anything, and even if he could, it meant nothing to him. "That only happens if someone has more than one rib broken in more than one place," she explained.

"God, Marilinda, that must be – horrible. No wonder he's in such bad shape."

"It's a miracle that he is still able to breathe," Marilinda said hesitantly. "I've seen people who've had – less serious injuries than this – put on respirators. When someone's ribs are broken like that, they start to mess with other things, everything is pushed out of place or even torn up – which is why we really need to make sure he can still breathe right now."

"But we don't have a respirator or whatever here – if he can't breathe, we won't be able to really do anything – will we?"

"It depends," she said softly. She knew there wasn't anything they would be able to do, but she didn't have the heart to tell Penhall that. "But – if that happens, I know he won't want to be – alone – and you won't want him to be alone either."

As much as he didn't want to, he understood what she was telling him. Thoughts of her own husband's last hours came unbidden to him, and he wondered if she was thinking of this as well. God, all this way, just to have the person who meant more to him than anything die right in front of him? Penhall knew he wouldn't be able to take it if that happened, not like this, not when they were so close to getting out of here, not when –

_Not when he really didn't have to come with you in the first place, when he really just came with because he was worried about you being by yourself –_

Penhall closed his eyes. "But it might not happen that way," he said, when he could trust himself to speak again. "We might get him – to help – in time."

She placed the covers back over Hanson, who she could tell wasn't completely asleep even though he looked as if he was. "Of course," she said. "I am believing that's exactly what will happen." Her voice was self-assured, and when she turned back to him, he could see that she trusted in what she said. "And I am not always right, I don't know everything, but I didn't think you'd want me to – keep anything from you. Not about something like this."

Which was true, Penhall realized. As hard as the words were to hear, it would be worse if – things – began to happen and he wasn't prepared for it. "Let me go see about leaving here, how and when we can do it," she told him. "In a little bit you might want to try and get him to wake up. We need to see how he is, if he'll even be able to go."

But it was actually Hanson who woke up on his own, while Penhall was eating and having other things tended to. Marilinda was there, sitting in a rocker with the baby, and didn't even know he was awake at first.

"Where's Doug?" he whispered. It was all he could think to say; once again, he couldn't place where he was or what had gone on beforehand.

She stood up at his question. "I'm so glad you're awake," she told him. "He's not far – I think he is eating – do you want me to get him?"

"No, that's o.k., I'm sure he's hungry, he always is even under the best – circumstances," Hanson said. His voice was raspy, just as it'd been the past however many days, reminding Marilinda that he had some kind of serious illness going on as well as the broken ribs and anything else that might be happening to him. With all of his effort and concentration, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. "Where are we?"

She sat beside him. "Do you remember anything?" she asked.

"A little," he said, and she could hear the frustration in his voice. "It would be nice if I didn't keep fainting like some kind of – girl – every five minutes."

She couldn't keep from smiling a little at that. "You can't help that – anyone would faint if they were struggling with what you're struggling with." She became serious again. "How are you feeling?"

How was he feeling? Nothing had changed, that much he could tell. If anything, he felt weaker, and he doubted he'd be able to walk much further. "It's the same," he admitted, after trying to decide how much he should and shouldn't divulge to her. "But where are we? Are we still far away from – help?"

She explained everything to him, how they were with some family who made their home and livelihood in the mountains and were willing to take them to some city a day's journey away. "I'm surprised Doug doesn't want to leave me behind," Hanson finally said. "Well, not "leave me behind" – you know, go on alone and bring help back here."

"If he could, he would do it," Marilinda said. "But it's not possible." She was listening to him as well as watching him, and could clearly hear how labored his breathing had become, the distinct rattling sound that came when a person had some sort of lung infection.

"Yeah, that figures," Hanson said. "Just my luck, when I'm ready to stay back, I can't." For the first time in what seemed like days, he noticed the baby. "How is he?" he asked. "He looks – different. But different in a good way," he added hastily. It was as if he hadn't really paid attention to him, not since that morning he'd almost passed out with him in his arms. Thank God Penhall was here to help her with him – he was much better at the whole baby-thing anyway.

"He's good – look, they – the women – they cleaned him up dressed him in these clothes, he looks like such a sweet little boy now – oh, and they gave me this – shawl to wear so I can carry him easier – these people have been so good to us –"

Her voice sounded so happy for a moment, and Hanson knew it was because her mind was eased by being able to find her baby safety. Still. He was glad she could find _something_ to be joyful about, after all the previous heartache and sadness and worry she'd been saddled with.

/

The following day was ushered in by a damp fog that cast down a fine mist that sprayed over everything. It wasn't as bad as the rain they'd previously experienced, and the breeze was slight; nonetheless, it would make for slower going, not to mention how, once again, Hanson was cold, always it came back to him being cold, the warmth from being under the pile of blankets yesterday a distant memory.

It had been a long, unending night, just as they all were, but this one had been interminable in a different way. This one hadn't been about trying to get comfortable – although there was that – but really about being able to breathe without feeling like he was suffocating. He'd been unable to lie down at all, not without feeling like he couldn't get any air. Sitting was better, but not great, and being upright was the easiest – except that he was too tired and too weak to be on his feet for more than a few minutes at a time. _So, that's it, _he told himself, after silently getting to his feet for the third time – _just like I thought this would go, I can't even lie down anymore._ Yet whenever Penhall asked him if he was all right, Hanson would answer that he was – which he wasn't – but as long as he could find a way to keep getting around it, could figure out ways to compensate for whatever was happening to him, he wasn't going to give in.

_You might be dead at this time tomorrow, Hanson._

_Maybe. But if I am, it won't be because I gave up._

Now, being cold once again seemed like the least of his problems. They had two mules that they were supposed to ride – Penhall and one of the family – a brother? brother-in-law? – a young man named Alejandro who spoke only Spanish – were taking them down to this city, this promised land in the middle of nowhere. Hanson and Marilinda were going to ride –Penhall and Alejandro would walk. No one seemed to know how long this would take – these people hardly ever journeyed away from their home, had no reason to go to the city. All Marilinda could gather was that it could be reached in a day, if everything went all right.

Hanson had never been on a horse or a mule or any sort of riding animal in his life. Not even as a kid. Now did not seem like the best time to have his first riding lesson.

But what choice did he have?

_One more day, Hanson. That's what they're saying. One more day and then you can be done with all of this. You can do one more day, can't you?_

He was so worn out, and the pain in his side so agonizing, he couldn't even climb on the mule by himself, Penhall had to all but lift him on. Sitting straight up made him feel sick, though he didn't know why. He almost felt like he'd be better off walking. "Doug, I don't know about this."

"What do you mean?" Penhall said. ""It's just like riding a horse."

"Which I've never done, either."

"You haven't?" Penhall was incredulous. "Never?"

"Not that I know of."

"I can't believe I didn't know that about you. I thought everyone rode a horse at one time or another in their life."

"Did you ever stop to think my time hasn't come yet?"

"It looks like your time has come."

He could see that Hanson was getting irked with him. "Don't worry, it'll be fine. All you have to do is sit and let the mule do the work. There's nothing to it. I swear."

There was no sense arguing – there wasn't any other choice. And, for the first hour, it was exactly as Penhall said. The pace was slow, the mist was annoying, but the animal he was riding was very mellow, nothing to be worried about as far as that part of it went.

Except, every time the mule stepped into any kind of rut or dip in the trail, the pain shot through Hanson's ribs as if his insides were being pulled apart. He clenched his teeth and said nothing, but everything suddenly seemed to come at him at once: the sickly buzzing in his head from the fever, the trees spinning in front of him like a bad case of motion sickness and, of course, the feeling that he couldn't breathe, that something was crowding his lungs so that he couldn't even take the shallowest of breaths. He couldn't say he felt faint, not exactly, though he wouldn't be surprised if he did pass out yet one more time, but he could feel something slipping away from him, his last bit of strength literally draining out of – everywhere – and, before he knew what was happening, he could feel himself sliding off the mule's back, too startled and too exhausted to say anything. The animal wasn't going that fast, and it wasn't that far to the ground, but he felt himself land directly on his damaged side with a sickening crack. "Jesus!" he muttered, just before he hit the ground.

He couldn't believe what had just happened.

Penhall, who'd just gone on ahead to ask some kind of question, was beside him in an instant. He crouched down next to him and put his hand on his arm. "Tom, can you hear me? Did you – hurt – anything else?"

Hanson wasn't even sure he would be able to answer. "No – maybe," he said, his voice just a breathy, floating whisper. "Something's – wrong." He could feel something grating inside him now, could taste blood in the back of his throat. He could still breathe, but the pain it was causing him was making it nearly impossible.

"Can you get up?" Penhall began slowly lifting him to a sitting position, but every movement was torture, too much for Hanson to bear. He pushed Penhall's hands away. "No – don't. I – can't."

"You have to," Penhall said evenly. "We've got no other choice. We have to get down this mountain so you can get help. You can't just stay here." Inside he felt as if he might go crazy with fear, but he couldn't let Hanson see that. "You can do it. I'll help you. We'll take it nice and slow."

They waited. Marilinda had climbed down from the mule she was riding and she and Alejandro were standing next to Penhall. Hanson kept his eyes shut, trying to figure out a way to move that wouldn't cause him to either faint or cry out. Everything he did, even the slight breeze filtering through his sweat-soaked hair, was agony.

"All right," he finally said, gritting his teeth. "Help – me up. Just – my side."

Penhall motioned Alejandro over to Hanson's left side while Penhall carefully took hold of Hanson's right arm. They lifted him as slowly and gently as they could, being careful not to touch his side but nonetheless, he couldn't keep from groaning with the pain, and his legs nearly gave way before the two men caught him. Penhall managed to grab him around his waist with one arm, holding him against his side to steady him. Hanson leaned his full weight against him, head down, breath coming in ragged gasps, his entire body shaking with the effort just to stay on his feet. They all stood, motionless, and Penhall hoped his face didn't look as frightened as he felt.

"You ready?" Penhall finally said. He knew Hanson wasn't, but he also knew they couldn't wait until he was.

"I'm bleeding," Hanson said, matter-of-factly, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away covered with a thin smear of blood. He tried not to but he coughed, the blood thick in the back of his throat. Despite the shattering pain, he turned his head and coughed again, this time the blood spraying from his lips.

Fuck, Penhall thought. Just what everyone had thought, he was bleeding inside somewhere. He tried not to let it, but fear began to rise within him. "Marilinda, he's bleeding –"

She heard the desperation in Penhall's voice; swiftly, she unwrapped the shawl, spoke a few words in Spanish to Alejandro and handed him the baby. She went and stood next to him, tried to get him to look at her so she could see how much he was bleeding. "Thomas, is it – blood from inside? Can you tell?" She knew it was, knew by how he was acting, the way he had no strength, how he was having a hard time focusing, the way he had coughed – all of it.

Still. She desperately wanted to be wrong. "I'm – pretty sure." He swayed a little, and she and Penhall grabbed hold of him, trying to be careful of his ribs.

"Can you breathe?"

"I'm – I think so." His voice was gone, he was unable to get it past a whisper. "But – I'm bleeding."

"I know." She kept her voice calm – sometimes people became hysterical when they knew they were bleeding and while she didn't think Thomas was that way, one could never know for sure how people would react . And she had Douglas and Alejandro to think about as well, the need to keep everyone from panicking. "It's not a lot of blood – " and it wasn't a terrible amount, though any amount was bad – "but we need to keep going, get you to some help as soon as possible. I want you to say if you can't breathe, Thomas – I mean, right away. Do you understand?" Really, she didn't know what she'd be able to do if this did happen, but she was hoping to somehow prepare him more than anything so he wouldn't feel any more upset than he probably already did.

"Should I – what should I – " He didn't know what he was asking, not really – he was having a hard time putting his thoughts into any kind of coherency.

"Just breathe slowly," she told him, squeezing his hand. "Don't worry, just rest as much as you can. Try not to talk, just try to be calm. Cough if you need to – "

"It hurts – that –"

This, more than anything, broke her heart. She knew he'd been in pain, had seen it from the start, but to hear him actually admit it – and to know there was nothing she could do about it, especially when she could see how terrible it was for him – "I know, I'm so sorry," she told him. "You've had to put up with so much – but you just need to hang on a little longer. I know you can do it."

He didn't answer her right away, just blindly held onto Penhall until he felt he would be able to cope with everything. Finally, he looked up, shook the hair out of his eyes and tried to focus. "O.k., I'm ready."

"O.k.," Penhall said, with a confidence he didn't feel. "Back up on your friend the mule you go." He guided Hanson back over to the animal's side. "This time, try not to fall off." Penhall could see no way that they could lift him back on without it hurting like hell. "Sorry, Tommy," he said. "I'll try my best not to hurt you, but. . ." his voice trailed off.

"It's o.k.," Hanson whispered. And somehow – perhaps because he'd lost so much weight and wasn't all that big to begin with – they were able to boost him back up in one try. Yet, as soon as he was up, Hanson began to fall again – only Alejandro rushing from the other side to catch him kept him from smacking back onto the ground.

Clearly, he wasn't going to be able to ride down the mountain by himself. His strength was all but gone – Penhall knew him well enough to know that if he could do it, he'd do it. He went over to Hanson's right side, gently holding him around the waist. "It's o.k., Tommy, just lean on me."

"Doug, I'm sorry," Hanson said, his voice all but faded into nothing. But he did as Penhall said, tiredly leaning against him, his head resting on his shoulder.

Alejandro and Marilinda waited. "I'll have to ride with him,"

Penhall said. "Ask Alejandro which mule we should use."

Marilinda turned to him and relayed the message. Alejandro shook his head and gestured toward both mules while he answered her.

"He says neither of these animals is large enough to carry two men," Marilinda said hesitantly. "They aren't strong enough to take that much weight, especially as high up as we are."

"What? But he can't stay on by himself. Someone has to ride with him."

Marilinda spoke to Alejandro once more – this time Penhall saw him nod in agreement. She began untying the baby shawl from her neck once again. "Douglas, take the baby," she said. "I'll ride with Thomas."

"The baby?! I – what are you –"

"The mule – it can hold Thomas and myself. I'll ride with him. But you will have to carry the baby."

"But – don't you think you should carry the baby? I mean, he weighs next to nothing – "

"No – it's not the weight." She finished removing the shawl and handed the infant to Alejandro. "But if Thomas falls again or I need to grab him – I don't want the baby to get hurt."

"I – " Penhall swallowed anything else he might've had to say. It really was the only way. "O.k.," he said. "You climb on first so we can make sure this is going to work."

Marilinda eased her way onto the animal, mindful of how precarious Hanson's position was behind her. When she was set, Penhall gently moved Hanson off his shoulder and leaned him forward so that he was resting against her back.

The motion caused him to groan in pain. "Doug, what's wrong?" he murmured.

"Nothing," Penhall answered, trying to sound more reassuring than he felt. "Here. Put your arms around Marilinda. She's going to ride with you."

Hanson obeyed, but his grip was loose at best. "Tighter," Penhall ordered. "Or you'll slide right off." He looked up at Marilinda. "Can you do it? Is he too heavy on you?'

"As long as he holds on, it'll be all right. She pulled his hands around her harder. "Thomas, like this. Or else you'll slip. Douglas, go get Raphael and I'll show you how to tie him to you."

Penhall got the baby and she helped him adjust and tie the shawl, the baby secured safely inside. Miraculously, he had stayed asleep through everything and Penhall couldn't help smiling to himself. "But – what if he cries?"

"Well, I'll be right here," Marilinda said. "It will be fine – if he cries, I will take him for you. You will be all right, Thomas told me you're good with babies."

Hanson had said that? Penhall wasn't even aware that Hanson ever paid attention to those kind of things. They resumed their journey down the mountain, though the pace had slowed to less than a crawl. The mist still fell, coating the ground with a fine film of water that made it slick, so they had no choice but to go slow. She knew it would be difficult for him to talk, but every once in awhile Marilinda called Hanson's name, asked him something simple to see if he was conscious or not. He always gave some sort of answer, though not in full sentences or even intelligible words. He never completely lost consciousness, but they could both tell that he was fading, that he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. "I'm bleeding on you," she heard him say to her at one point. She could tell he'd raised his head, and she managed to turn back toward him. "It is all right, Thomas," she told him. "Don't worry about it. You are not the first person to bleed on me." She hadn't been able to see his face, but she felt him slowly lean back into her. Every now and then, she could feel him lift his head up and then she knew he had to cough, and she would listen to him until he was done and had weakly spit the blood over to the side, before laying his head against her again. It was terrible to hear, especially when he ended up moaning in pain, but she was grateful to hear it because it meant he still had the strength to try and keep breathing, was still able to keep himself from choking on his own blood.

The baby fussed and cried for awhile – not loudly, and not continually, but enough that Penhall became tense. "What should I do?" Penhall asked. "What do you think it is?"

"Just – it's all right, he's only fussing, it is not his real crying, but if he starts screaming than we'll have to stop. Maybe you could try singing to him for a little bit."

"Me?" Penhall said. "You've got the wrong guy. I can't sing at all."

"Douglas, you're telling me you've never sung to your nephew before?"

"He has," Hanson whispered. Only Marilinda heard him, but they were the first voluntary words he'd spoken in awhile.

"Douglas, your best friend just told me you do too sing," she teased.

"Then he'll have to tell you how terrible I am," Penhall said. Like Marilinda, he was thrilled that Hanson was still with them. "I might make him cry harder."

"Maybe," Hanson whispered. After that, he was quiet again, except for the sounds of his painful coughing or tortured moaning. But despite everything, he managed to hold onto Marilinda and keep himself upright.

They stopped awhile later, to feed Raphael. Marilinda asked Penhall if he would change him and then she offered to feed him where she sat, so as not to disturb Hanson anymore than they had to, but Penhall convinced her to come down, to give her a break more than anything. While she went off with the baby, Penhall went and stood next to Hanson, holding him against his side as before. "Doug, where are we?" he whispered, though he didn't open his eyes.

"Almost there," Penhall answered, though he didn't know if this was true or not. Marilinda had tried to find out how far away they were in miles, but Alejandro seemed unable to gauge it that way. "By dark," was the only answer he'd been able to give them. "Just hang on a little longer. You're doing great. Marilinda is feeding the baby. As soon as she's done, we'll get going."

"Is the baby o.k.?" Again, the breathless, floating whisper, so thin Penhall could barely hear him.

"Yeah, he's great. Hungry. But he's good. He's in better shape than the rest of us, by far."

That brought a ghost of a smile to Hanson's colorless face. "Good." He didn't say anything else, but Penhall watched him, unable to help but think that, after all they'd gone through, he might not make it.

"Hanson, listen, you'd better not be crapping out on me," Penhall said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I mean it. We're busting our asses for you so the least you can do is hang on until we get there."

"Who says I'm not hanging on?" Hanson whispered. He wearily lifted his head from Penhall's shoulder, raised his arm to his mouth and coughed, this time long and hard, enough so that Penhall almost called Marilinda back over. When he was finally done, Penhall could see blood splattered across his sleeve. "Fuck," Hanson said, leaning back into Penhall. "That really hurts."

Penhall carefully wrapped his arms around him. "Yeah, I know," he said, though he really didn't know at all, had no fucking clue what it was like to endure this kind of pain, had no idea how he was able to stand it. Not even when they'd first gone to El Salvador and gotten the crap kicked out of them had it been this bad. But he needed to say something to try and help him, as feeble as his attempt was. "Don't talk anymore, save your strength." _Not that he has any strength left, Penhall._

The rest of the endless ride was silent. The baby was lulled to sleep, and by some unspoken agreement, Penhall and Marilinda didn't bother Hanson anymore, realizing that he needed all his energy just to breathe instead of trying to answer their questions. He wasn't unconscious, Marilinda could tell that by how he was holding onto her, but he didn't say anything, and even his cries of pain became less frequent. He would still cough, but not as much, and near the end, he wasn't even lifting his head to do it. Marilinda was truly afraid then – if he was unable to keep his airway clear, if he didn't even have the strength to cough anymore, then he was as close to dying as someone in his condition could be. _Please, not now, not in front of his friend, not when we've come this far, not when he's fought so hard –_

They made it to the edge of the city they were trying to reach when it was completely dark, and the mist that had plagued them all day turned into a steady chilly rain. He was awake, but Hanson was unaware of where he was or what was happening. He knew it was night, he knew he was leaning against Marilinda and he felt that Doug was very close by, but other than that, everything else revolved around his physical state – the continual blood that welled up behind his chest and up into his throat, the painful sliding sensation his broken ribs made whenever he took a breath, no matter how small it was, the certainty that he was slowly suffocating, especially when he knew he didn't have the strength to cough anymore.

He knew they'd made it somewhere they'd been trying to reach – a hospital? A clinic of some sort? when he felt someone's strong hands – Penhall's? – lifting him into some sort of lighted place that was echoing with frantic Spanish voices – and some other sound, some kind of metallic noises that he couldn't place, and then he was lying on a table, and he briefly managed to open his eyes – Doug's face was there, so he was able to close them again, and this time he went to sleep, but it wasn't like the fevered, half-conscious sleep he'd had in the mountains, nor was it even like the tortured semi-conscious state he'd been in all day, this was a deep, dreamless release that, had he been able to think about it, was very much like the sleep he'd fallen into when the plane departed, when this whole thing began, only this sleep was borne out of morphine, someone quickly and expertly sliding a needle into his arm, and he didn't come up from it for nearly four days, and this time, when he awoke, it wasn't Marilinda next to him, it was Doug, and Hanson knew then that the long nightmare had finally come to an end.

**Um, yeah, like I said: long. Ridiculously so. I've tried to go through and get all the errors out, but I can't stand looking at it another second so I'm just going to post it and hope there aren't too many glaring mistakes. . .and that people aren't nodding off by the end here. . .**


	12. CROSSROADS

**Next-to-last chapter – disclaimer: quite long. But you all are used to that at this point. Also, lots of medical stuff – mainly because it's part of how I like to write. Plus, it (hopefully) explains what's going on, so is somewhat relevant to the story. Also, if I'm in error with international flight rules/documentation, etc. I apologize, I'm going back to late 80's/early 90's, how it was then, at least what I can remember, etc. Don't own it, I love it so much but alas, that doesn't mean I own it.**

Someone's strong hands – more than one pair – pulling him down off the mule, rather roughly, no thought given to how much pain it was sending through him.

It didn't matter.

Lots of voices – most of them in Spanish, both male and female.

Too many for Hanson to be able to pick out Doug's among them – if he was saying anything at all.

He couldn't get his eyes open, even as he was being half-carried into – wherever it was they were going. The light was bright, he could tell that, but it made him even more weary, less able to force them open.

The stickiness of the blood in his throat – it was horrible and he tried to swallow it, could not bring himself to cough again, knew he couldn't bear to feel that torturous pain splintering his side any longer. But he couldn't swallow it either, not really, he was too exhausted to even do that, and when he felt himself starting to choke, he somehow managed to give some kind of weak, half-strangled cough that didn't do anything for him but spurred everyone around him into action.

Sounds of things crashing around him – almost like the sound of silverware being dumped onto a tray or something. The Spanish voices were in high gear – this time he could hear Marilinda as well, but he couldn't tell what any of them were saying. He was unceremoniously lifted up onto some kind of table, and he could feel himself shivering uncontrollably – he heard the sudden sound of a baby crying – Marilinda's – the baby – what was his name? How could he not remember something like that?

"Thomas, it's all right – they're going to put a chest tube in you, they're going to give you something so you sleep –" Her voice was urgent but sounded like it was coming from far away, like an echo from another room.

He somehow managed to open his eyes then, and Doug was right there, holding the baby. Hanson wasn't afraid, not exactly, but he could tell that Penhall thought he was, could see by the way his eyes were trying to reassure him. He wanted to say something back, or at least somehow let him know it was all right, that Penhall shouldn't worry about him, but whatever they were giving to him was already taking effect and he was out in the next couple of seconds.

Dark.

And dreamless.

/

"How is he?"

Penhall, who had been staring out the window into the night sky, turned at the sound of Marilinda's voice. He hadn't seen her for quite awhile, not since the first harrowing minutes when they'd first arrived and all hell was breaking loose while they tried to save Hanson's life. The "hospital" they'd come to was really no more than a clinic, and had been completely unprepared for taking care of him or his injuries – they were trying, Penhall couldn't fault them in that respect, but it was much like Marilinda had said, they were just a small operation in a small city, many hours away from a real hospital.

Luckily, the doctor who was there did know what he was doing, and between him and Marilinda, had managed to at least get Hanson somewhat stabilized. Marilinda had given him the abbreviated version of what had happened, what she thought might be wrong with him, and he'd taken her at her word and immediately gotten some x-rays and then inserted some kind of tube into Hanson's chest. Penhall had watched all of this as if he was someone else, everything being conducted in – as always – unintelligible Spanish, and he'd still been holding Raphael, who'd woken up and started to cry. He longed to know what was going on, what was being said, but he also realized he needed to keep out of the way, knew he had to let them work and not have to deal with him, especially while he was holding a screaming infant. Hanson opened his eyes once, just once, and Penhall tried to tell him he was safe now, wanted to somehow let him know not to be afraid of what was going on, but then someone gave him a huge shot of – something – and Hanson was out, and Penhall was grateful for that, that at least whatever torment he was being put through, he wouldn't have to feel anymore pain.

Now, Hanson was lying in one of the five beds available – the others were empty – still unconscious, hooked up to the chest tube and an IV and a whole host of other stuff that Penhall couldn't even begin to know what it was for. They were still coming in and out of the room to do tests on him, draining the blood that had been leaking in to his chest, measuring oxygen levels or something – that much Penhall had been told by Marilinda, in a hastily translated conference between her and the doctor, right before she'd taken the baby to have him examined. "They're going to watch him right now, measure his oxygen levels to make sure he's getting enough on his own," she explained. "If they go any lower, then we'll have to figure out – what to do next."

"Maybe we should see about getting him transferred to a – bigger hospital," Penhall had suggested. "Can't we airlift him out of here and take him to – wherever the next major hospital is?"

"They don't have those sort of – capabilities here," Marilinda said. "I know what you are thinking, like a helicopter to fly him out – but we're still too remote for that. We could probably get him somewhere on foot – if he wasn't in such bad shape. The next biggest hospital is hours away."

"Can't someone drive him?"

"Douglas, he wouldn't survive the trip right now." She took the baby from him. "I'll come back as soon as I can but they really want to take a look at Raphael, make sure he is all right – and you, too, you really should let them check on you and make sure you've nothing worse than your head injury."

"I don't need to be checked out," Penhall said. He didn't want to be away from Hanson for even a minute, not if he didn't have to. "I can get the head thing looked at whenever."

"That's not a good idea," Marilinda said. "You don't want to have it get infected or something – it's going to need at least a few stitches – " But she knew she wasn't going to be able to convince him to leave Hanson at the moment, so she softened a little. "When I am done, I'll come back and sit with him for awhile," she offered. "That way, you can be – taken care of."

As much as he wanted to take her up on it – not because he was so eager to have himself looked after, more because he liked her company, and felt secure in both her medical knowledge and Spanish abilities – he wanted her to have some time alone with the baby, a chance to rest and gather her strength before –

_Before she has to face the realities of trying to bring her husband off the mountain so she can bury him. Before she has to confront the reality that she has two children that she is now going to be responsible for raising on her own, one who is going to have to be told she'll never see her daddy again. Before she has to say goodbye to two of the greatest loves of her life – her husband and the country they gave their heart and soul to._

"I want you to take care of yourself and Raphael," he'd told her. "You need to. You've already done so much – we'll be all right, now that we've actually gotten help –" Of course, he couldn't be sure of this, as far as he could tell, Hanson wasn't nearly out of the woods yet, but he didn't feel right making their problems her problems, not anymore, not when she had so many of her own difficulties to face.

Yet, here she was, back with him and Hanson. He'd known she would be – mainly because, in the past few days, he had seen that this is who she was – who her husband had been – that this was their life, doing whatever it was that they could for those who needed it – but also because, from his own experience, he knew she was looking for distractions, ways to be occupied so she wouldn't have to be alone with her thoughts, her own situation.

Her grief.

"Where's – Raphael? Is he all right?"

She smiled at him. "He's asleep, he's – perfect. I mean, he has a couple things that need to be taken care of, but nothing major. People who've heard our story can't get over that – well, that he was born in those conditions, and he is doing so well." She eased her way over to the bed and looked down at the sleeping Hanson. "He was so scared – not that I blame him – but he did everything right, like he knew exactly what to do. He'll be so happy to know that – everything he did turned out the way it was supposed to."

Penhall came and stood next to her. "When will he be awake?" he asked.

"Oh – not tonight, they've got him on a pretty high dose of morphine right now. Plus something that'll keep him asleep."

"Marilinda, he – he doesn't really even like taking aspirin." He was thinking about when Hanson had been locked up and drugged in that adolescent institute and, though it'd been a long time ago, he knew it was something he still remembered – that feeling of being held against his will, while he was slowly being poisoned by all those drugs. Of course, this was nothing like that, not even close, but still. Penhall knew Hanson didn't like any kind of drugs, he never had, but after that crazy experience, he was even more on his guard about being in control, liked the idea of drugs – for anything – even less. "He really won't like it if they keep him doped up for very long."

"Douglas, they have to, at least for now – the kind of pain he's in, he won't be able to rest otherwise. "

"No, I know, it's just that, I really want to talk to him. I'm afraid he won't know what's happening to him, or won't be able to tell us if something's wrong."

"That's why they're watching him so carefully, "she said gently. "They'll know. And I'll watch him, too – these people don't have a lot of modern equipment, but they're very responsible, they know what they're doing."

"So, is he out of danger, then?"

She waited a bit before answering. "Not yet," she finally said. "It's going to be a little bit before we can say that. He still may end up needing a respirator, and I'm willing to bet the tests they run show he has pneumonia as well – "

"But arethey running tests? Will they know which tests to run? You say, "as well"– what do they think is the matter, exactly? I know you think that these people are competent, and I believe you, but look at this place. They don't seem like they have all the right – stuff to take care of him." He knew he sounded demanding and he didn't mean to, not with her, but it was impossible for him to pick up any of the Spanish, and the whole situation seemed chaotic and frightening. Not that it wouldn't seem that way no matter where it was happening, but at least, if they were back home, he'd be able to understand what the hell was going on.

"Well, it's like I thought, he has a bunch of broken ribs – three of them – well, four, really, but the one is only cracked, the other three are the problem, they've been broken in more than one place, that's why he's had such a hard time breathing, it's nearly impossible to breathe right when it hurts like that."

"What about the bleeding? What's that from?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Well, it looks like one of the ribs tore the lung tissue – he's probably been bleeding for awhile now and we obviously couldn't see it – "

"But you knew it," Penhall said. "You said all along you thought he might be bleeding."

"I wasn't completely sure," she said. "And I _wanted_ to be wrong – was hoping I was wrong – I mean there wasn't anything we could do about it, so far away from everything."

"So, is he going to need surgery? What will they do about – everything?"

"He might – that chest tube is there, trying to drain off the blood, so hopefully he won't need any surgery." She didn't want to tell him that this place was unlikely to have the staff or the equipment to perform any sort of major surgery, though she knew she would have to be honest with him if he asked. "They'll run tests, check certain things to see if anything else – like his liver or his spleen were damaged, but so far it doesn't seem like it – but as far as the ribs go – you can't really do anything about them, they can't be set like other broken bones, they have to be left to heal by themselves."

"Won't that hurt?"

"It'll be pretty painful. But they'll give him the morphine for awhile – or something else," she added hastily, as if sensing that he was about to protest.

"How long do you think he'll be here?"

"Oh, Douglas, I can't say – at the very least, a few days – I mean, these are life threatening injuries, they'll have to leave the chest tube in at least a few days, and if he has pneumonia they'll have to treat that as well – he won't be able to leave for awhile."

"Marilinda, how do you know all this?" It was almost as if she herself was a doctor.

She seemed startled by this last question. "I don't know all that much, not really – it just comes from – the work we've done in El Salvador, treating so many people over the years."

"But you've obviously had some kind of training – you didn't learn all this on your own."

"I've had – a little schooling," she explained. "Nursing – but I had the babies so I couldn't keep it up." She gave him a smile that he could only describe as sad. "But perhaps now I'll have to go back – I'll need a way to support my children."

Penhall didn't know what he could say to that, even asking her any more questions about Hanson suddenly seemed inappropriate. Luckily, she took the matter out of his hands. "I think he'll be fine, eventually," she told him. "It's a good sign that he's able to breathe on his own – it's just going to be awhile before he can leave here. And as for wanting to talk to him – well, you should do that even if he does seem like he can't hear you – there's always a chance he'll be able to hear something you say to him."

/

Dark.

Though not completely dreamless.

But, most importantly, a blessed relief from all that pain.

Well, perhaps not completely. There were times when Hanson still felt it – but it was different now, it was fleeting and duller than before, and when it did threaten to move back up into the realm of sharp and unmanageable, something would happen, something unseen would move through him and remove it again, before it got a chance to take hold of him.

Of course, whatever was responsible for keeping the pain away, was also messing with his head. Nothing seemed normal to him, and it was impossible for him to put even one coherent thought together.

_Tom, can you hear me?_

_Tommy. . ._

He could hear things, at various times, but the things he heard meant nothing to him. At first, everything he heard was frantic, rushed and excited, the sounds of metal hitting the ground – or something – or the rapid shouts of one Spanish voice to another. After that, there were times when, though he knew he wasn't asleep, all he heard was silence – and this was more disconcerting to him than all the noise because he couldn't open his eyes and couldn't imagine where he was that it would be so quiet.

_Tomas, son usted se despierta?_

_Thomas, are you awake?_

Tomas – who would be calling him that?

_Tom, I don't know if you can hear me, but I don't want you to worry, everything's going to be fine – _

That was Penhall. Sometimes he could tell who was saying something, but not usually. He wasn't awake long enough to think about it. Or sometimes he could tell what was being said, but not identify who said it.

_Don't worry, sport, you'll be ok. I promise you that._

But who would've said that? The only two people who had ever called him "sport" were his father and Jenko, and both of them were dead.

But, again, he couldn't stay awake long enough to figure it out. It wasn't like he ever actually woke up – it was more a momentary pass into consciousness, but only for the quickest of seconds, and never enough so he could open his eyes or speak.

_Tomas, nosotros le necesitamos para toser._

_Thomas, they want you to cough if you can._

Who were "they"? And surely, "they" couldn't be talking to him, "they" must know how much that hurt, when he coughed.

Dark. But cold. Back to that again. He came up long enough to imagine someone was spreading some kind of icy blanket over him. No wonder he was shivering so much.

_The antibiotics aren't working._

_He may have to go on a respirator if his oxygen levels go any lower. Or if his kidneys shut down._

_They say they don't have a respirator here._

Was that Marilinda?

_Why aren't the antibiotics working?_

Penhall again. Hanson fell back to sleep before he could hear the rest of what was being said. He knew it was about him, but he didn't have a clue what any of it meant.

_All right, Hanson, now that you're not going anywhere, it's time to show you how it works around here._

'_Specially 'cause you're just such a sweet little thing._

Folsom. But how? All he could see were strangers with some kinds of – weapons – advancing toward him and he tried to scream, tried to say anything, but he couldn't get his voice to work, nothing would come out – at least he didn't think anything was coming out, he felt like he was paralyzed, strapped down to – whatever it was he was lying on – but his heart was racing a mile a minute, and he'd never been so terrified in his life.

More frantic Spanish.

_He needs to come off the morphine. He's hallucinating._

Doug?

_It might not be the morphine, it might be the fever._

Marilinda.

_Thomas, are you in any pain? Squeeze my hand if you are._

_Tom, don't be afraid. You're safe. No one's trying to hurt you. _

_It's just a dream, you're all right, Tommy._

Just a dream.

/

"Douglas, I have some good news."

Penhall's eyes snapped open at the sound of Marilinda's voice. He'd been dozing in the chair next to Hanson's bed, off and on, for the past couple of hours. He'd tried to lie down on one of the empty beds and sleep but it wasn't possible – the drugs they were giving Hanson made him – not himself, as Penhall had suspected they might – and Penhall found himself having to sit with him constantly to make sure he didn't become so agitated that he pulled some vital tube out or try to figure out whether Hanson's continual broken cries came from pain, terror or something else. Penhall suspected he was dreaming – hallucinating, really. He knew a thing or two about what effect these drugs could have on someone, especially at the high dosage Hanson was being given. Marilinda had tried to reassure him that he wouldn't remember anything when he was awake. Penhall knew all of what she said was true, understood that without the morphine his cries would be undoubtedly ones of extreme pain, but he still didn't like it.

"I could use some good news," he said. He was exhausted beyond anything he'd ever felt before. It wasn't just the physical weariness, though that was great, it was the mental stress of all of this – especially now, his nerves frayed raw by the constant worry that Hanson wouldn't pull through. He'd held his own and they'd managed to keep him breathing without the use of a respirator -- which they didn't have -- but for some reason, the antibiotics they were using to treat the pneumonia weren't working – or, at least they weren't working quick enough, and whatever – infection –he had was now starting to spread throughout his body, threatening to shut down his kidneys and other vital organs.

At least, that's what Penhall understood from what Marilinda had told him. He didn't really get any of it, how everything was related, but he did understand that, if things kept up the way they were going, Hanson would soon be dead of some massive infection rather than the internal bleeding that had been such a huge issue a couple days before.

"What's the big deal about going on a respirator?" Penhall had demanded when she'd told him that this could possibly happen. "A lot of people – don't they need to be on one when they get sick or whatever?"

This was where she'd hesitated, wished she didn't know as much about these things as she did. "Yes," she finally answered. "And you're right, it would probably be better for him if he was -- back in the States, they'd have put him on one the minute we walked in the door, just because – that's how they do it."

"So? Why won't they do it here?"

"Because," she said quietly. "They don't have anything like that here."

"Then we need to get him to wherever – they have that kind of equipment."

"That's in Mexico City," she said. "That's a plane ride away. But first you'd have to get down to the next city to even fly there. That's a trip in itself."

Penhall had thought he might go mad. How did people actually function in these places – any kind of basic help seemed impossible to get. "How do they – do surgeries then?" he demanded. He was thinking about their earlier conversation, when Marilinda had mentioned the possibility of surgery.

"They – can't."

And finally, Penhall got it. They might've gotten help, but the help they'd gotten was limited, and there really were no guarantees.

"This is crazy!" he burst out. "How do people around here live? How can the nearest hospital be – that far away?"

"This is a Third World country, Douglas," she reminded him. "It's not like the States, where you have a good hospital on every corner."

"What the hell are we supposed to do?" he challenged. He knew none of this was her fault, but there was no way he would watch Hanson die in front of him as long as he was able to do something. "Should we try and get him to – this wherever and fly him to Mexico City?"

"Even if he survived that far – they would never let him board a commercial flight in the condition he's in."

"Well, it's all we've got – maybe a doctor could meet us there –or something?"

That was when Marilinda had left him. "I think I might be able to try something," she told him as she raced back out the door. "Douglas, you are brilliant."

He'd had no clue what he'd said or what she was going to try, but now she was back, seemingly with good news.

"I just talked to someone in San Salvador," she said, pulling up another chair and sitting down next to him. "It took forever to get through, but I finally did and guess what?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "I talked to one of our people that we know there, who helps us with a lot of our medical supplies – bringing them in and all that – anyway, he's going to send us a different antibiotic – a stronger one – so we can try that and see if it works."

She sounded so excited. "But how will it get here?" Penhall asked. "I thought it was hard to get from here to – anywhere." He wanted to believe her, that this would work out, but it just seemed like it would lead to another dead end.

"This friend – he'll send it to the city nearest here – I found out it's called Espere de Cruce – and then someone can bring it from there to here."

"Who?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure of that yet – whoever it is that is willing to drive me there."

"You?" Penhall said. "What are you – "

"I have to leave, Douglas, I know, I'm sorry, I don't want to – I mean, of course I want to leave, I have to leave, my little girl is waiting for me, and I have to make arrangements to bring Michael's body down –" She stopped, swallowed and looked away for a moment before going on. "My friend in El Salvador, once I told him what happened, he called my father in St. Louis, and I just got done talking to him before I came here – he's flying to Mexico City tomorrow with my father-in-law, they're going to meet me there and help me get through all the red tape about – Michael – so, I have to go, I _want_to go, but I hate to leave you and Thomas by yourself, but I don't know what else to do, except the one good thing is, I won't leave until I know that the medicine is on its way here."

Penhall's mind was whirling. He wasn't even completely sure of what she was talking about. "Of course you should go," he told her. Secretly, he was dismayed about her leaving even though he'd known all along she couldn't stay here indefinitely. "I – when are you going?"

"Sometime tomorrow," she told him. "I have to call my father again – and you should come with me, you could try and call your nephew, and if we can't get through, I can have my father call from St. Louis, let someone know you – and Thomas – are all right."

"But Marilinda, what about – Tom? What's going on exactly?" He needed to know – if she was leaving soon, he had to be prepared to deal with the situation as much as possible.

"Whoever brings me to this city – my friend is sending the medicine there right now – I will get it and send it back here. You should have it by tomorrow night at the latest."

"But can he make it that long?"

She went over to him then, looked at him for a long time, biting her lower lip in concentrated thought. "I – I won't make any promises," she said finally. "But I am going to believe he will. We have no choice, Douglas. There's nothing else we can do."

Penhall knew she was right. It was really out of their hands right now – they were doing all that they could do.

They would just have to hope that Hanson had enough in him to hang on.

/

He'd been showing signs of waking up the past day or so – real waking up, not the delirious, frightened whimpering that had come in the first days from the morphine – actual moments where his eyes would open and he seemed aware. Though he didn't say anything, he would focus for a little bit, often frowning as if he were trying to figure something out. The first time Penhall caught this, he asked him if he was in any pain, and Hanson gave the frown and shook his head. "Do you want anything?" Penhall asked gently, elated that he'd actually answered a question in context. Again, Hanson shook his head no, looked at Penhall for a few moments, the frown easing from his face, his eyes softening in recognition. "Doug," he said, and that was all, his eyes closed again and he was asleep, but Penhall was thrilled, knew then that whatever had needed to happen had happened, not so much because Hanson had acknowledged him, but because, for the first time since the plane had crashed, Hanson had seemed like himself, even if for the briefest of seconds. Despite the discomfort and confusion, Penhall had caught a glimpse of the old Hanson, the quick strength in his voice when he'd said his name, the swift flash of clarity in his eyes when he'd looked at Penhall's face, and for the first time in – ages – Penhall felt a small measure of peace, a real sense that this was going to turn out all right after all.

Marilinda and the baby had left nearly two days before, in a mad, hurried rush that, the more Penhall thought about it, the better it probably was because neither of them were in any kind of state to deal with a long, drawn-out emotional good-bye. "I wrote down some Spanish phrases for you," she told him, handing him a piece of paper. "I tried to think of the most important things that you might need to know but, of course, I probably didn't get everything. The nurse – the lady who knows a little English, she'll be here sometimes so you can have her help you translate some things – but I think you'll be fine, anything they do with Thomas now isn't going to be – complicated. They'll give him the antibiotics as soon as they get here and after that, once they start to work, they'll want him to eat and rest, keep taking the meds and all that – as soon as they pull the chest tube and they can see that he's able to eat, you'll know he's just about ready to go home." Her words were spilling out, as if she were afraid that she would forget to tell him something before she had to go. "He'll probably still sleep quite a bit, even without the morphine, he'll be very weak at first and – oh, they'll probably want him to cough a lot, you know, help his breathing and all that – he won't like that, it will hurt, but make sure he does what they ask."

"You know I'll try," Penhall said. "But you've seen how stubborn he can be." He didn't want to, but he needed to ask her. "Marilinda, what if these antibiotics don't work? What – what should I do?"

She took his hand. "They will," she said. "They're the best ones we have – they'll work. And he's strong. You know how strong he is. It'll be all right, I know it will."

Penhall hated to admit it but he didn't want her to go – not just because her Spanish was invaluable or because she was a walking encyclopedia of medical knowledge – though that certainly was a big part of why he trusted her so much – but he knew he'd miss her, would miss her presence, a presence he hadn't even been around all that long, but one which was strong enough to put people at ease, one that understood what people were about, could read what a person was like – what _Hanson_ was like – just by watching them. Of course, it was a gift, a part of who she was and why she was so good at the work she did, and he dreaded not only the idea of not being able to have that spirit around a little longer, but also the fact that she now was about to have her life irrevocably changed by the realities she was about to face, and he knew that, while she would always be the same person, things would never be the same again.

"I hate to leave him without saying goodbye," she was saying, her hand resting on Hanson's arm as he slept. "But I don't think I should wake him up, he probably wouldn't be able to listen anyway, and I have something for him so, Douglas, will you give it to him and tell him goodbye for me when he's awake?"

Penhall had wondered about that as well, how Hanson would react to her being gone when he woke up without having a chance to say goodbye to her, had been thinking about it ever since she'd told him she was leaving as soon as possible. "Of course," he said. "But Marilinda, he wouldn't expect you to give him anything – I mean, I'll do it, but – "

She handed him a book which he immediately recognized as a Bible. "It's mine," she said. "But I want to give him something so that he might remember me – us – in a – good way."

Shit. Penhall was suddenly flustered, not sure how he was going to handle this. "I – I know he'll remember you in a good way, whether you give this to him or not," he stammered. "Are you sure about this? I mean, that's your Bible – don't you – need it still?"

"I have my husband's," she said. "Remember? The one you brought me?"

So she did. Crap. "Marilinda -- " He wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to tell her. "I don't know if you know this, but Hanson – Tom – isn't all that religious of a guy. I mean, because it's from you I know he'll be glad to accept it and all, but I –don't know how much he'll get from it. Are you sure you don't want to – maybe give it to someone – "

_Someone who might actually open it once in awhile – _

"Someone like your children or whoever," he finished weakly.

Anyone else and he wouldn't be sitting here, trying to explain all this, attempting to keep her from giving something away that was obviously important to her, something he knew she and her husband had based their life around. But she wasn't "anyone else", she was someone that had had a hand in saving Hanson's life, someone who was facing the worst situation of her own life and was about to give something she cared about immeasurably to someone who didn't care about it at all.

"Yes, I know," she answered. "He told me that – he's not religious, doesn't know that much about the Bible – but it's all right, he doesn't have to read it, he doesn't even have to keep it if he doesn't want to, it's a gift and people are allowed to do whatever they want with gifts. There's something in there for him – he'll see what I mean – "

He couldn't refuse her, regardless of how wasted a gift like that would be, so he took it and set it with the tiny pile of other things they could claim as their own. "Thank you," he said softly. "I'm saying that for Hanson – I know he'd want me to tell you that."

"I need to go in a minute, the people who are taking me to Espere de Cruce are waiting – they told me to take my time but it's a long drive and I want to be able to get the first flight out so I don't miss my father – I mean, I know he'll wait but I don't want him to have to wait any longer than he has to – " She paused for a second, reached into her pocket and stuffed a piece of paper into his hand. "This is my phone number," she said. "It's actually my parents' phone number, it's where I'm – going to – be staying for now when I get back to St. Louis. I want you to promise you'll call me if something happens here that you need help with. Like, if you think Thomas isn't getting better or there's something you can't understand or are worried about and you think it's important – anything. Call collect. And if I'm not there, leave a message and someone will get it to me."

Penhall could see that she was having a hard time leaving. "We'll be fine," he told her, though he hoped she couldn't tell that he had a dozen worries about how he and Hanson were going to manage here on their own when neither really knew the language or anything else for that matter. But he knew he wouldn't call her, understood what she could not yet: that the minute she saw her father waiting for her, was reminded of why he was there, her mourning would begin, her old life would abruptly cease and her new life – whatever that might be – would start. Penhall wouldn't be able to interrupt that – not now, not when she had to see about getting her husband's body back home, not when she had a funeral to plan and two young children – one whom she hadn't seen in weeks – to tend to, grieving friends and relatives to meet with, life-changing decisions to make. He knew her offer was genuine and he was grateful beyond words for it, but she had so many more important things to worry about, and once she was winding her way down the mountain back to her home, it would be time for him and Hanson to take care of themselves as best they could.

He didn't know what to say, he didn't want to lie to her and tell her he'd call when he knew he wouldn't, and an idea came to him suddenly, and he grabbed Hanson's chart and ripped a piece of paper off it, grabbed the pen attached to and began scribbling furiously. "This is where you can reach me," he told her, handing the paper to her. "It's my home number and my work number. I'll take yours if you take mine. You promise to call me if you ever need anything. You know, if there's something you want to ask me about – your husband – those last hours. No matter how small you might think it is – I mean, if you ever want to talk about – things – anything. O.k.?"

She smiled at him then, but he could see that she was moments away from bursting into tears, and he didn't want that for her, not when there were going to be countless tears for her in the days and weeks and months ahead, so he turned to the baby, who was sleeping in the infant seat she'd brought in, and lifted it up to look at him. "He's beautiful, Marilinda," he said. He suddenly felt on the verge of tears himself – too many days of not nearly enough sleep and continual worry and thoughts of both Hanson and Clavo waiting for him, not knowing if he was coming back or not. "Make sure you send us pictures of him at Christmas."

"Oh, Douglas, of course!" It had been the right thing to say – she smiled at him then, and in it he could see her unspoken gratitude. "I – I'll probably send some before that just so you can see how he's doing." She took the carrier from him. "Thank you again, for everything – and make sure you – give Thomas – tell him what I said –"

"I will. Do you want me to help you – with bringing him –"

"No, they are just downstairs – I can manage it." He knew she could, he also knew it was the start of her having to manage many things alone. "You stay here with Thomas, he might wake up and I know he'll want to see you."

And, just like that, with another quick goodbye, they were gone, and Penhall thought about going to the window and watching her drive away, but he knew he couldn't do it. He was glad she was going, she needed to be with her family right now instead of messing around with him and Hanson, but he was troubled as well, for reasons he wasn't even completely clear about, other than, he knew what was about to happen for her, knew it from his own experience, that instead of things becoming easier for her, they were about to become worse, and she seemed like the last person this should have to happen to.

Fortunately, he didn't have much time to think about it because, true to her word, the medicine arrived and, just as she'd anticipated, it did what it were supposed to do, stopped the fever and the infection, took away the threat of needing things that weren't available and not long after, Hanson woke up for real and Penhall had his hands full after that.


	13. NEEDFUL THINGS

**All right you fine people, this is it, we've pretty much finished our journey. . .don't own 21 Jump Street, , but I do own my love for all things 21 Jump Street, particularly the gorgeous Officer Hanson. . .**

He recognized that he was in some sort of hospital room, but other than that nothing seemed familiar to him.

Except for Penhall sitting next to him, although in some ways, even this Penhall wasn't quite like the Doug Penhall Hanson was used to.

"How're you doing?" Penhall's voice was so – soft – Hanson was pretty sure he'd never heard him talk this way before – especially to him. "It's about time you woke up – I told them you wouldn't like being out of it for this long but – well, you've been pretty sick, they really didn't have much of a choice."

Hanson managed a brief smile, but even that felt strange, as if he couldn't quite get a full smile across his face. He'd only been awake a few minutes, but it was the longest he'd been conscious in nearly four days, one of the first times he was seeing and hearing things that he felt made some kind of sense. "Hospital?" It was all he could think to say, even though he wasn't completely sure what he was trying to ask.

"Yeah, you're in a hospital," Penhall said. "You were bleeding out when we got here – do you remember anything?"

"A little." Anything he remembered, though vivid, was in unrelated bits and pieces. The hoarseness in his voice was better, but he still didn't sound like himself, could tell he was slurring his words. "I feel drunk."

"The drugs," Penhall said. "But they've taken you off the morphine and put you on something – less intense."

"When can we go home?"

"You've still got some recovering to do," Penhall said smoothly. "I mean, it's not like you have a couple bumps and bruises." In truth, Penhall wasn't sure how much longer they'd be here, but he knew whatever answer he gave, unless it was "today", Hanson wasn't going to like it.

"Am I – " Again, Hanson felt like he didn't really know what he was asking, could already feel himself slipping back into sleep, even though he didn't want that. He knew there were things he wanted to ask, but getting all of it into words was futile at the moment.

"All right?" Penhall finished for him. But Hanson had already closed his eyes again. "You're doing good," Penhall added, not even sure if Hanson was still listening. He was surprised when Hanson opened his eyes again. "You weren't doing so good at first but now all you need to do is rest, get your strength back, that whole thing." He could see that Hanson was almost ready to fall back asleep but fighting it with everything he had. "You don't need to stay awake for me," he told him. He reached over and took his hand in his own. "You rest. You need it."

"Doug – Clavo?"

"He's fine," Penhall said. "I – talked to him yesterday. Someone got a hold of your mom and Fuller – don't worry about all that. Just worry about you right now."

"The baby?"

Fuck. He'd deliberately left Marilinda's name out of the conversation hoping to avoid all of that until Hanson was a little more with it. "He's great," Penhall said. Which was the truth. "Healthy – everything."

"Marilinda?" His voice was fading, barely above a whisper.

Penhall hesitated just a second, but Hanson heard it. "She's good," he said. Even to himself he sounded phony. "She's fine."

This seemed to wake Hanson up. "Doug –" He could hear that Penhall was keeping something from him, he always knew when he was holding back, even with the smallest thing.

"She's fine," Penhall said, more emphatically. "It's just that – she left, her and the baby, a couple days ago." He had no idea what the look on Hanson's face meant and he rushed on before he had a chance to say anything. "She didn't want to leave without saying goodbye, but she – had things to take care of – all sorts of red tape to get her husband down – from the mountain – and her little girl back home – " He knew Hanson would understand this, wouldn't have wanted her to stay behind, but he wasn't sure how he'd feel about not being able to say goodbye himself.

"Christ, Doug, you didn't let her go alone, did you?" He was barely able to get these last words out before, unable to pull any more air into his lungs, his voice failed.

"You're talking too much," Penhall warned. "And, no, I didn't let her go alone. Her father was coming, and so was her father-in-law, I think. She was o.k. – she has lots of people to help her with stuff – people back home and in El Salvador."

Hanson relaxed a little. "Did you tell her thank you for me?"

"Yeah, of course," Penhall said. He knew the rest of this conversation was going to have to wait, at least a little while longer. "Right now, though you need to rest, not overdo it. Otherwise they'll stick you back on that morphine drip or whatever it is."

But already Hanson's eyes were closing again, even that little bit of conversation enough to wear him out. "We'll talk more after you wake up," Penhall promised. He tried to pull his hand away from Hanson's but Hanson wouldn't let him.

"Doug – "

"Yeah?" God, now what?

"Thanks."

Penhall squeezed his hand. "Don't go getting all sappy on me." He said it lightly, but he meant it – he wasn't ready to allow himself any kind of emotional displays. He wondered how much Hanson understood, if he realized how close to dying he'd actually been.

"No –" But his voice faded after that, his breathing falling into a pattern of real sleep and for the first time since this whole thing had started, Penhall found himself finally able to sleep as well.

/

After yet one more week of various ups and downs in Hanson's recovery, the doctor at the hospital –clinic, really – agreed to sign the papers that would allow them to board an international flight. He was disinclined to do it at first – he wanted Hanson to stay another week, something about not being certain that he was ready to fly with the injured lung and wanting to keep him on the IV antibiotics for another week. "No way," Hanson had said when everything had been translated to him. "You said I could go when all the – tubes were out." He'd been off everything less than twenty-four hours, and Penhall had known he would be chomping at the bit to leave as soon as he could.

"That was just what Marilinda said," Penhall reminded him. "It was just a guess, she didn't say the second the chest tube came out you could walk out of here."

"But I'm going to."

"Not if they won't sign the papers. We can't get on the plane without them."

"Then tell them I'll – do whatever as long as I can go. Tell them I'll take the medicine with me, tell them I'll – I'll go to a hospital as soon as I get back home – c'mon, Doug, I know you want to get back as much as I do – I know I'm o.k. enough to fly –"

It was true, Hanson did seem like he was somewhat better – well, quite a bit better from a week ago – though he still was far from one hundred percent. He was barely eating yet, any little thing he did still caused tremendous amounts of pain, he was asleep more than he was awake, he coughed almost all the time.

But he could breathe. And he _was_better – both of them could see that.

And he was right about something else: Penhall didwant to get home, more than anything.

So, he somehow worked his magic, was able to convince the hesitant doctor into releasing Hanson, and then, with the help of the English-speaking nurse, managed to somehow find someone willing to take them down the mountain the next day.

It was like a minor miracle.

Which reminded him of something as they were getting their few things together to go home.

"This is for you."

Hanson looked at it, not comprehending. "What is it?"

"A Bible."

"A Bible? What –"

"It's Marilinda's. She asked me to give it to you."

Hanson still didn't understand. "Why would she do that? Who –"

"She – I think she said she wanted to give you something that you'd remember her by. Her and the baby. You know, because she didn't get to say goodbye to you herself."

Hanson took it from him, though reluctantly. "She shouldn't have done that," he said, more to himself than Penhall. "I mean, I told her – back when we were still on the mountain, even before we knew you were still alive and everything – that I didn't really do the religion thing – "

"I tried to tell her that," Penhall said. "But it was hard to – tell her not to do it, I mean she really seemed like she wanted to, plus how could I tell her you wouldn't take it after – all she's gone through, you know?"

"No, of course not, you couldn't," Hanson agreed. "It's just weird—I mean, it's not that weird, I guess – " He stuck the book inside with all his other meager possessions.

"She said there was something in there for you," Penhall said. "That you'd know what she meant when you saw it."

"There's probably a lot in there that could be for me," Hanson said. "For both of us, actually."

"Well, you look at it first and then let me know," Penhall said. "Although, after all that we just went through -- I don't know what I'd think about -- all that religious stuff."

"Yeah, me either."

/

The journey down the mountain had taken longer than they'd anticipated, though they both should've known it would, given how slow everything took in this part of the world. The road was treacherous, there was no other way to describe it, it was narrow, a one lane muddy path that a vehicle could easily careen over the edge from into the abyss below. The person driving them spoke next-to-no-English, but it really didn't matter, neither Penhall nor Hanson had anything they wanted to talk about with him anyway.

Penhall and Hanson didn't talk much either – the roads were littered with ruts and bumps that Penhall knew must be jarring Hanson's sore ribs every time they hit one. Hanson never said anything about the pain, but between the nearly-impassable road and the frequent coughing fits he was forced to endure, Penhall knew he had to be miserable. "I'm – o.k.," he gasped, in answer to Penhall's unspoken anxiety, after one particularly long bout that had left him barely able to catch his breath, and Penhall knew he probably was, this had been going on for the past week, everyone had told them this was normal, this was what happened when someone was recovering from pneumonia, particularly when someone had nearly died from it. Both of them had grown used to it, but still. Now it was different. Now they were literally, once again, in the middle of nowhere, and it was a little different to be unable to breathe while being stuck on some dangerous mountain overpass with someone that didn't speak English as opposed to having it happen in a clinic with people you could get help from if you needed it. Not for the first time, Penhall began to doubt if they should've left this early. Maybe Hanson hadn'tbeen ready to leave yet, hell what did he know, he wasn't some medical expert. Penhall mentally cursed himself for not being more insistent that they wait.

Of course, Hanson would've probably left by himself anyway, that's how eager Penhall knew he was to get back home.

Finally, out of sheer exhaustion, Hanson slumped against Penhall and fell into a fitful sleep, and Penhall was glad he could do that, at least for now. He himself was worried about everything that still lay ahead – two plane flights and all the intricasies involved with that whole business.

The rest of the trip had gone surprisingly well. They'd sat in the airport in Espere de Cruce, waiting for the next flight out to Mexico City for a few hours, but that had been all right, they weren't moving and the waiting seemed less stressful than the lengthy ride down the mountain. Or maybe it was just that, once they were that much closer to getting home, it was impossible to keep their spirits from lifting just a little.

The flight from there to Mexico City was a little more than three hours but it was easy, it was a domestic flight so they weren't questioned about anything. Hanson slept, as Penhall knew he would, but Penhall found himself unable to shut his mind down and relax.

Of course, there was Hanson. That was first and foremost in his mind. He seemed like he was making it all right, like he wasn't in any immediate danger or anything. He didn't seem great, though, and not for the first time, Penhall wondered about how things would go once they got back, how all this might interrupt his working at Jump Street, thought that this could be the impetus that very well could push him away from police work, at least for awhile.

Not that he would blame him.

And there was Clavo. He had talked to him for a little bit one night before they'd left, and hearing his excited little boy voice had knocked the wind right out of him, made it nearly impossible for him to say anything. The connection had been poor, the conversation short, but Penhall had hung up aching to see him, and had been unable to think of anything else but that since then. A part of him had been afraid that Clavo would forget him – or at least regress back to those earlier days when Penhall had first brought him home, but he could tell by his voice that he longed to see him as much as Penhall wanted to see him. _I'm not doing this again, _he promised himself. _If I have ever need to come back here, I'm bringing him with me._

Which made him think of Marilinda. He thought of her often, usually fleetingly, something or other bringing her to mind, things that reminded him of El Salvador or not being able to understand some Spanish word or hearing Clavo's voice. Sometimes he thought of her randomly, wondered if the funeral had taken place, hoped that being with her children was giving her a small amount of solace. She had mentioned that she was thinking about having her husband buried in El Salvador, that last night she'd been with them, because he loved it there so much and Penhall had been able to give her a little insight about having Marta buried so far away from him – but he also understood what she was trying to decide – it was the land that had meant everything to him.

He wondered how long it would be before he stopped thinking about her.

He couldn't tell if Hanson thought about any of this. He'd not said much about anything – about either the days they'd spent getting down the mountain or the days spent in the hospital, or even what he thought about Marilinda and how she might be faring. Of course, he'd been busy with other matters, like trying to stay alive, and hadn't had the luxury of endlessly pondering things like Penhall had. Yet he knew how Hanson was – he was thinking about things way more than he was letting on. At least some things.

/

The last leg of the journey. They were actually in the air, heading toward U.S. airspace, everything having gone as it should've, albeit very slowly. Hanson could hardly believe it, almost didn't dare allow himself to think that he could actually be home within a few hours. God. Home. _Not yet, _he told himself._ When you're actually back in your own bed, then____you can say you're home. Not before. _

_Too much could still happen._

"You nervous?" Penhall beside him.

"Yeah, a little," Hanson said. "Planes aren't my favorite thing right now."

"You did fine on the flight to Mexico City."

"Yeah, but now we're so close, you know? And how do you know I was fine?"

"You slept nearly the entire time."

"Sorry. I couldn't help it." Walking, riding, coughing, breathing, even just sitting on a plane – everything exhausted him though he'd been trying not to show it. He was pretty sure he'd be asleep within a few minutes after this plane took off as well.

"No, it's fine, of course," Penhall answered quickly. "I was just wondering if you were ok with the whole flying thing and all."

"Are you?"

"I'm just anxious to see Clavo," Penhall admitted. He was anxious about many things, but that was one of the top two things right now, the other being how well Hanson was holding up. It was crazy, but he worried more about him when he was asleep than when he was awake. He longed to talk to him – about everything, really, but any subject would do at this point.

But it was obvious that Hanson wasn't up to talking, was still having a hard time staying awake for very long, at least when they were flying.

His eyes hadn't been closed more than a minute when he felt Penhall nudge him in the leg. "Hanson!"

The desperation in Penhall's voice caused Hanson's eyes to fly open, a surge of alarm making his heart speed up. There was no way he could handle even one unusual or weird thing happening on this flight. If someone so much as dropped something, he thought he might have a heart attack.

"What?" He took a quick glance around – everything seemed o.k., the plane was still flying smoothly, the other passengers quiet and content.

"Are you o.k.?"

Hanson frowned at him. "What do you mean, am I o.k.? I was trying to go to sleep."

"I know," Penhall said. "But you sounded kind of – funny. Weird, like."

"Weird, like how?"

"Like this – " Penhall drew a loud breath in and let it out, as if in a deep sigh. He looked at Hanson expectantly.

Hanson stared at him. "That? Was it? I don't know, it sounds to me like I just managed to actually take a deep breath for the first time in weeks."

"Yeah, but it just seemed so – loud," Penhall said, beginning to look slightly uncomfortable.

"Maybe it's because you're not used to me being able to breathe without hurting myself." He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. "Just – don't worry about it. I'll tell you if something's wrong."

"Yeah, ok.," Penhall said. "Sorry, you go back to sleep."

Hanson closed his eyes again, his exhausted body falling back into a warm, relaxed doze within minutes. When Penhall grabbed his arm and hissed his name again, he had a harder time opening his eyes. Mentally, he cursed Penhall. "What?"

"Uh – you all right?"

"Doug, why do you keep asking me that? Especially when I'm half-asleep?"

"Well, it's just that you coughed." Penhall stopped, his face reddening slightly.

"Penhall, I've been coughing for days now, I know this isn't the first time you've noticed!"

"I just – you know, after what they said when we left – want to make sure you're o.k."

"I don't remember you being this – worried – on the other flight."

"That's because you were asleep!"

"Which I'm trying to be right now!"

"Well, you weren't making so much noise on that flight – I don't know."

Hanson leaned his head back against the seat, looked up at the ceiling. "You want me not to cough? Is that it? Should I not breathe as well?"

"No, of course not," Penhall said. "But you know what they said – you're not supposed to be flying yet. I'm just nervous, you know?"

"We have three more hours to go," Hanson said. "I don't think I can handle you panicking at every little sound I make."

"Maybe I should go find an empty seat – let you get some sleep – "

Hanson glared at him. "What the hell's the matter with you? Have you already forgotten what happened the last time you went and sat somewhere else while I was sleeping?"

Realization hit Penhall and he blushed. "Yeah, right," he mumbled. "But why is it that every time we fly somewhere you always go to sleep?"

"Maybe because all the crazy stuff we're doing when we're not flying makes me tired! Like hiking down some mountain after a plane crash, for starters!"

"Well, I'm doing all the crazy stuff too, and you don't see me needing to go to sleep."

"I guess you got me there, Doug. Next time you can have the broken ribs or whatever and then you'll be the lucky one who gets to fall asleep." He didn't bother keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. They weren't fighting, not really, Hanson understood Penhall was anxious – just as he himself was – now that they were so close, that this was his way of trying to make the time go faster.

Still. Hanson was a little bit irked. Not to mention actually tired. And definitely not fully recovered. Stimulating conversation wasn't something he was necessarily great at under ideal circumstances, which he was pretty sure Penhall knew. And if Penhall was so worried about him, why didn't he just stop talking and let him go to sleep already?

_Hanson, don't forget the load he's been carrying the past couple of weeks – Marilinda, the baby, Clavo back home, you – _

_Especially you._

_You know you'd be dead if it wasn't for him._

_Remember how, when you were sitting alone in the dark all those nights, you thought you were never going to see him again, how you would have given anything____to have him with you –_

_How you felt the moment you knew it was really him in front of you, alive – _

_And you're getting annoyed with him because he wants you to talk to him for awhile?_

He didn't trust himself to speak for a minute. "Doug," he finally said.

"Yeah."

"Did I ever thank you for, you know, saving my life?"

"Hanson, don't start." Penhall waited until Hanson stopped gazing at the ceiling and was looking at him. "There's nothing I did that you wouldn't have done for me. But yes, you did thank me, you probably don't remember it. And you're welcome."

Hanson waited again. "O.k.," he said. "Tell me what I missed when I was drugged up all those days."

And Penhall did. He spoke a little about what had gone on in the hospital, his excitement at being with Clavo again, but he mainly talked about his time up on the mountain before they'd reunited, those horrific hours where he'd had to stand by, helpless, while someone – someone decent and good – was dying right in front of him, unable to do anything but watch. Hanson listened, because he knew that was what Penhall wanted, that this was probably one of the hardest things he'd ever carried around with him. He asked a couple questions, said a few things but mainly he let Penhall talk, mostly about that, but there were other things as well, and he didn't talk the entire time. In fact, when they changed planes in – Utah? – somewhere – and were on the last two hours of their flight, it was Penhall who finally fell asleep and Hanson left to sit up and begin to sort through what all had taken place the past three weeks.

Except, he couldn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever, at least not like Penhall would do. He wasn't completely sure he wanted to think about any of this, not really.

Thinking about unhappy events had never really been his thing.

It was dusk when they landed, but full-blown nightfall before they cleared customs and were actually in the airport, free and clear to go – home.

Home. It was surreal – both Hanson and Penhall stood there, almost unsure about what to do next. They'd been traveling over twenty-four hours and were barely able to stand, much less think. It felt great to finally be there, but it also felt unreal at the same time.

"Hanson! Penhall!"

They turned; Hoffs, Ioki, Fuller.

Clavo.

The moment he saw him, Penhall was off and running. Their joy at seeing one another was one of the most beautiful things Hanson had seen in – well, weeks. Maybe ever. He slowly walked toward the other three, stunned but not surprised to see them there. He knew Penhall had called Hoffs from Utah when they'd changed planes, but he'd not really thought everyone would be here.

Hoffs was the first to reach him, and she held back nothing, was hugging him in an instant. "Oh, Hanson," was all she said, all she seemed to be able to manage, and he could tell by how she said it, the way she was holding onto him that she was moments away from tears, and he really didn't want that, not for him, not now, so he hugged her back, tried to reassure her. "I'm all right, Jude," he said. "Really."

"Are you sure?" She pulled away from him reluctantly, and he could see she was still visibly shaken.

"Yeah, why? Do I really look that bad?" He knew he probably did, but he actually hadn't seen himself since – before all this.

"Yeah, you kind of do." Ioki, stepping forward to give him a quick hug. His tone was light but his eyes were all seriousness, and Hanson could see that he was as concerned about him as Hoffs was. "But it's good to have you back, man. We'll take you any way we can get you."

_You are important, too. You have people waiting for you as well._

"Your mom was going to come," Hoffs said as they walked over to where Penhall, Fuller and Clavo where. "But then she – well, she said she'd see you tomorrow – you know, when you could be alone –"

His mother. He couldn't even imagine what she'd been thinking, though it probably wasn't that far from what he'd gone through when he didn't know if Penhall was alive or not. "Yeah," Hanson said. "How is she?"

"She's – going to be thrilled to see you," Hoffs said simply. "Just like we are."

"Hanson." Fuller. Hanson had a hard time believing he was even here, or that he'd actually be as happy to see him as he was. "You've looked better," he told him, as he shook his hand. Shit, he must really look like hell.

"He looked worse," Penhall said. "If you'd have seen him last week – or the week before – you'd think he looks pretty good right now."

The looks on their faces told him they weren't convinced. "Hey, Penhall mentioned something about you delivering someone's baby," Ioki said, trying to change the subject. "How did you manage to do that?"

God, not that whole thing. He knew they'd want to hear about it, but he was still embarrassed by that whole nightmarish performance. "I'll let you know if I ever figure that out," he said. "It wasn't one of my finer moments."

"Yeah, it was," Penhall said. He was still holding Clavo, who was refusing to Penhall set him back down.

_If I don't make it out of this, then at least let Doug be all right so Clavo won't be alone –_

"We should go," Fuller said. "I'm sure the two of you are ready to get home."

"Actually," Hoffs said. "We were thinking of taking you guys out to dinner – sort of a "welcome home" type thing – that is, if you're up to it."

"Yeah, sure," Penhall said. Now that he was home and back with Clavo, Hanson could see how much more happy and relaxed Penhall was, almost as if he'd caught a second wind.

"I can't." Hanson knew he'd never make it, knew that he wouldn't be able to eat very much, could tell that the pain in his ribs was going to come on with a vengeance soon, it already was starting to, that any time now the late hour and lack of any real sleep in the past couple of days was going to catch up with him and he'd be sitting here coughing his lungs out, and while Penhall might be used to it, Hoffs and Ioki and Fuller weren't and he didn't want to put them through that, definitely didn't want that kind of attention put on him. He could already feel how worn out he was, wasn't even sure how he'd been able to stay on his feet this long. And tomorrow he would be seeing his mother – which he wanted to do, but it wasn't going to be a quick hello and out-the-door type thing, things were going to be emotional for both of them and he wanted to be at least a little prepared for it. "I'd like to," he added. "But I know I can't do it – just yet."

Of course they understood, especially now that they could see exactly what kind of shape he was in. Penhall handed a protesting Clavo over to Hoffs. "Just for a minute," he promised him. "I'll only be a few feet away." He motioned Hanson to come over by him.

"You o.k.?"

"Well, what do you mean by "o.k.?" I'm about ready to lie down on this floor, but other than that, yeah, of course I'm o.k."

"Are you sure? Because I can skip dinner, do it some other time – they'd understand – and you could come over for awhile if you want."

"Doug, we've been together every minute for the past three weeks – not to mention the three weeks before in El Salvador – aren't you sick of me yet? Will you please get your ass out of here and go be with Clavo? And quit worrying about me?"

"I want you to call me if you change your mind – I don't care if you come over at three in the morning – or if you need us to come by you –"

"I'll be sleeping, how will I change my mind?"

And then Penhall, without warning, reached over and pulled him into one last hug, careful to not put any pressure on his hurt ribs, but hugging him tight nonetheless. "Don't you ever do that to me again," he whispered. "I mean it, Hanson."

Hanson couldn't answer, knew he wouldn't be able to say a word, not unless he wanted to start weeping in front of everyone, cause some sort of scene in the middle of the airport, so he didn't say anything, just buried his face into Penhall's shoulder and allowed himself to be held until he felt he had some sort of control again.

When he pulled away, he didn't dare look at Penhall, in fact, he stepped back before Penhall had a chance to say or do anything else that might tip his emotional scale over the edge. "You call me," Penhall said. "For anything."

"Sure," Hanson said, but even that was hard to get out. Luckily, everyone else was there, Clavo calling for Penhall a welcome distraction, and they separated and went their different ways, and not a moment too soon, Hanson hadn't realized how hard that whole goodbye thing with Penhall would be.

Fuller brought him home, which turned out to be good, as much as Hanson loved Hoffs and Ioki, and knew they were going to want to hear the whole story, he didn't think he was quite up to all the questions yet. Fuller said all the right things, asked questions that weren't too hard to answer, spoke just enough to keep the silence from seeming too awkward. He mentioned how the press would probably find out soon what had happened, offered his advice on how he and Penhall could handle it, something that Hanson hadn't even thought about. "You don't need me to go in with you?" was the way he put it to Hanson when they'd arrived at his apartment.

That was what Hanson liked about him. No fussing, but always an open door to ask him for help if you needed it. "No," Hanson said. "I'll be all right."

And he felt like he would be. He'd thought for sure that he'd want to be alone – he hadn't really been by himself for weeks, but now that the moment was actually here and he had no one around but himself, he found himself feeling –

Uncomfortable.

Strange.

It was weird to be in his own home again, but it always was after he was gone for awhile. Of course, this was the only time he'd come home after nearly dying, so maybe that was why things seemed so –

_Wrong?_

Peculiar.

_Maybe I should've gone out with everyone, _he thought, after he'd thought of and rejected nearly everything he could do. There was plenty to choose from – eat, watch t.v., shower, go to sleep – but he cast aside all of those ideas as fast as he thought of them – why, he couldn't say except doing all of that seemed so –

He couldn't say what.

_God, Hanson, stop acting like such a freak. You're home. Exactly where you were trying so hard to get the past three weeks. Can't you just shut up and enjoy it without feeling like something's wrong?_

Apparently not.

He was right about one thing – he was physically in no condition to do anything – his side was killing him and his lungs were starting to ache, reminding him that he had a whole bunch of pills he was supposed to be taking, and he'd pretty much neglected to do that the entire time they'd been trying to get home. _Great job taking care of yourself there, _he told himself, as he searched through the one meager bag that held the few things he'd brought back with him. _What are you trying to do, end up back in the hospital? No wonder you need Penhall._

He found the meds, a bottle of antibiotics, the codeine – which he hadn't wanted but was now glad he had – some kind of steroid? Something for the broken ribs or the damaged lung, he wasn't exactly sure, particularly since everything was always being conducted in Spanish with Penhall as interpreter, and some kind of weird inhaler thing that he had no intention of using, but had taken because it was the only way they would discharge him, if he promised to take it. _I'm like an old man with all my pills and crap, _he thought.

His hand landed on the Bible.

Marilinda's Bible.

Christ.

It was not lost on him that he was using the Lord's name in vain even as he was pulling His Word out of the bag.

_Why would she have given me this?_

But he wasn't angry or anything – how could he be, it was Marilinda, someone who, besides saving his life, was one of the few genuinely good people that he'd met, for sure a much better person than he was.

Of course, she wouldn't agree with that.

He really didn't know if he was supposed to read it or what she thought he might use it for – she knew he wasn't someone who had God – any god – as his foundation. What had Penhall said – she wanted him to have it so he'd remember her – as if he'd so easily forget any of this, her included – and there was something in it for him.

Whatever that meant.

It was worn and frayed at the edges – she'd obviously read it a lot. He idly flipped the cover open and was startled to see handwriting on the inside – he looked more closely and was shocked to see the first words:

_**Dear Thomas,**_

Holy shit.

He almost didn't want to read any further, could not imagine what she would write to him.

_**I wanted to thank you in person, for all you did, for both Raphael and myself. . .but since I can't I will write it here.**_

_**Thank you for being our angel. It was as if you were mine and Douglas was Michael's. . .**_

Jesus!

He almost couldn't read any more. How could she be writing this – thinking it, after all that she'd lost –

_**Luke 10: 41-42**_

Oh, great, some Bible verse she wanted him to look up –

_Hanson, don't be such a prick._

_**I'll let you read it for yourself , but it is one that I think belongs to you because it says, "Even though you are worried and burdened by many things, be sure you don't forget to tend to the most important thing –**_

_**Your spirit.**_

_**And you have a beautiful spirit, Thomas.**_

_**Eternally grateful,**_

_**Marilinda and Raphael Michael Thomas Salazar**_

The words blurred in front of him as the tears rushed to his eyes. That she'd given her son his name was flattering, completely unexpected, but that wasn't what had caught him so off guard, wasn't the reason why he could feel the tears that had welled up in his eyes beginning to spill over.

Was that him? So heavy with – everything – that he was neglecting his spirit?

Was that how people saw him – someone with a broken spirit?

Was that how he saw himself?

His father.

His job.

Prison.

So many things that he carried by himself. . .

But how had she known that?

And how could his spirit be broken when he'd fought so hard to live?

_But weren't you holding on for her? Her and the baby? So you could get them to safety? And then Penhall?_

What was so wrong with holding on for other people?

_You are important too. You have people waiting for you as well._

But she _was_right – or that verse was right, or whatever – he was neglecting his spirit, had been for a long time, had really just been going through the motions at – everything.

He put the book down, knew he couldn't look at it again, not now anyway, maybe not ever. It was if he was being forced to think about things he'd promised himself he wouldn't think about, things like his life, what he wanted to do with it, who he saw himself as.

And some stranger who he'd probably never see again had been the one to figure all of it out.

He didn't know what to think.

Maybe it was the words he'd just read.

Maybe it was the realization that he'd been on the cusp of death, and had nearly lost the person he cared about the most.

Whatever it was, he might not know exactly what he thought, but he did believe, for the first time in many years, that he had an inkling, a sudden, small revelation of what it was that he wanted to do.

Was meant to do.

**All right, this is where we part ways -- this is not how I would normally end this, in my 'writings' I have it going in a totally different direction, but since this is 21JS and they're home, they're safe, they're not doing anything Jump Streetish, I had to bring it to an end here. I'm sorry if you hated that, but don't hate Hanson, hate me instead (but try not to hate me, either)! Again, I liked what I did, at least for the most part. I just hope some of you got something out of it as well. I don't think I could've written this any differently, it's the journey I was led on. Thank you to any and all who are reading/have read this -- lots of love to all my fantastic reviewers. Again, thank you all from the bottom of my heart & all my best until the next story goes up. . .Hanson's Angel**


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